


Caducus

by Haethel



Category: Thief (Video Game 2014), Thief (Video Games)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Gen, Hallucinations, Injury Recovery, Major Character Injury, Mental Instability, Mental Institutions, Moira Asylum, Psychological Torture, Psychotropic Drugs, Sensory Deprivation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-06-06 17:57:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6764215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haethel/pseuds/Haethel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The true test of helping someone is whether or not they're better off afterward. Even corpses benefit from being devoured." <i>~ Guilt has Black Wings</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The diagnostic labels used in the story come from textbooks and medical journals of the Victorian era, and bear little resemblance to those used today. Slang and insults are a mixture of those common to the period and those taken from the game. As such they range from in questionable taste to downright offensive.

Screams woke him. He wasn't sure whether they came from one throat or from many. He wasn't sure whether they were from him. Or something inside of him. The jagged clamour reverberated through him, a rushing of echoes layered upon echoes until he feared his skull would shatter. The side of his face was wreathed with flame. A ghostly starburst shivered white-hot in the darkness behind one eye.

Footsteps crunched against stone.

“Over here.”

More footsteps, nearer this time. “Is he dead?”

Was he dead?

Fingers brushed feather-light across his cheek, then pressed firm against his throat. He tried to lift a hand to push them away. Dirt scraped his knuckles as his fingers twitched. Pain flared in his head, through his shoulder, down his side. He moaned.

“Easy, now. We've got you.”

Leaden eyelids refused to respond. He dredged up the last of his strength, was rewarded by a sliver of light. The blurry confusion made no sense and he screwed his eyes shut, blinking several times before trying again.

The world canted to the side, booted feet moving in and out of his line of sight. Something warm and wet pooled under his head. Flickering torchlight fell upon the pale, bloodstained fingers lying motionless in the rubble.

A shadow fell over him.

Hands reached for him. Something jarred loose as they lifted him. Everything was spinning, the throbbing in his head pounding hard and hot. A vice tightened about his ribs and he was unable to stifle the whimper. He drew in a shuddering gasp. And another.

  


****

  


_6 23 NRy841: Received Patient #31. Male, admitted by the state and delivered under guard. Arrived unconscious, condition poor. Numerous abrasions and broken bones. Head injury, severity unknown. Lacerations to right side of the face, extending to right eye. Moved to Men’s Ward, Room M12, for observation and treatment. ~ Nurse Aubermill_

_6 23 NRy841: Repaired scalp and facial lacerations: schedule for removal of stitches after 6 days. Left distal clavicle fracture reduced and figure-eight bandage applied. Strapping to left 5th/6th rib fractures. Left proximal tibia/fibula fracture reduced and plaster bandage applied. ~ Doctor Huntfield_

_6 23 NRy841: Coma. Pulse soft and slow, Respiration slow without stertor. Unresponsive to verbal command. Unresponsive to pain. ~ Nurse Aubermill_

_6 24 NRy841: Coma. Dressings replaced. ~ Nurse Thurlow_

_6 25 NRy841: Coma. Pulse soft and slow, Respiration slow without stertor. Unresponsive to verbal command. Briefly responsive to pain. Dressings replaced. ~ Nurse Aubermill_


	2. Chapter 2

Footsteps. Footsteps and the echoes of footsteps. The firm tap, tap of heel on tile, and the quiet padding of soft-soled slippers. Pain, or the memory of pain, lingered somewhere in the distance. Muffled voices seeped through the darkness shrouding him, rising and falling in waves to crash against some far-off shoreline. He strained to reach them but the words slipped through his fingers and fell away into the darkness.

 

****

 

Gentle fingers brushed against his arm, then pressed against the inside of his wrist. Tendrils of light lanced through the shadows to throw up a blue-white halo behind her head. Pale blue eyes stared up at him, shot wide with horror. Her slim fingers slipped through his. He reached for her but grasped only empty air. Light flared, blinded him, pierced him through.

The light faded, leaving silence in its wake.

 

****

 

The sobbing crept into his awareness so gradually that at first he wasn’t sure if he heard it or not. The muffled whimper of someone desperate not to be heard. A sound he knew all too well. He held his breath, praying for whoever it was to quieten down. If one of the babies started fussing then Matron would have to come in, and they’d all go hungry. He heard footsteps approaching and cringed. Waited for the yelling to start.

The footsteps passed by without stopping. That wasn’t right. The footsteps hadn’t been right either—too slow, too much echo. Stone, or tile perhaps? Not the floorboards he’d expected. The tar-like odour of carbolic soap hung heavy in the air, almost but not quite masking an unfamiliar salty tang. He hadn’t thought about the orphanage in years, had done all he could to bury the memories. So why had he …?

Something was stabbing him in the ribs with every breath. He tried to open his eyes, unease prickling down his spine when he realised that he couldn’t. There was something over his face, something that pressed gently but firmly against his eyelids and down his right cheek.

Pain lanced through his left shoulder as he lifted a hand from the blanket, tearing the yelp from him before he could bite it back. Forcing shallow breaths through gritted teeth he tried again, more carefully this time. His fingertips encountered coarse-weave fabric, traced the outlines of bandages wound around his head. The sharp stinging that spread across the right side of his face helped to dispel some of the fogginess.

He rolled his head to the side and found the knot that secured the bandages. Moving his left hand only intensified the agony in his shoulder, forcing him to fumble one-handed with his right. The knot had been pulled tight and his fingers struggled to find enough grip to tug it loose.

Just as he finally felt it loosening the footsteps returned, this time growing louder. Someone was coming this way. A cold lump formed in his stomach at the rattle of a key sliding between lock tumblers. He dropped his hand back down against his side and let his muscles fall limp.

There was a click, and the soft creak of well-oiled hinges. Fabric rustled as the footsteps came to a stop. He felt a gentle thud through the mattress as something was dropped onto the foot of the bed. Fingers gripped his left wrist and lifted slightly, sending a jolt through his shoulder. Warm breath spilled over his forearm and set his skin crawling. Quiet ticking from a pocketwatch counted out the seconds as he fought the urge to shrink away.

“Thirty-one?” The hushed murmur belonged to a woman, pitched low to ensure the sound wouldn’t carry far. The grip on his wrist tightened just short of painful as she chafed the skin on the back of his hand. “Thirty-one, can you hear me?”

The words made little sense and he let them go.

High-pitched wailing pierced the air from somewhere in the distance. Several loud thuds followed and the crash of splintering wood. His hand was lowered back to the blanket. Expecting her to turn away immediately, he was startled by the gentle squeeze before she let go. He barely managed to contain the flinch. The mattress shifted again and he heard the scratch of pen against paper. Brisk footsteps left the room, followed by the unmistakable sound of a key turning in the lock.

He waited the span of several slow breaths, straining his ears as he listened to the distant commotion. Was this a hospital? Why was he here? Any Watchman would sooner see him hang then carry him to a doctor. Had something happened?

He’d known something was wrong with the job from the beginning. Basso had been strangely quiet, refusing to look him in the eye or elaborate what, or even where, his target was. It wasn’t until he’d made his way across the Auldale Bridge and met with—

Erin! Erin had been there, snappish and cocksure as ever. And pushing—always pushing—for his attention, his approval. It was no wonder Basso had been so cagey. Basso had been well aware that if he knew Erin was involved he’d never have agreed to show up. Erin was dangerous. Unpredictable. Killing those guards had proved she hadn’t changed. And yet … racing her across the Auldale rooftops had felt like coming home, slipping into their well-worn roles as if the past few years had never been.

But none of that mattered any longer. Erin was dead. He’d known it the instant she fell. He hadn’t been quick enough to catch her, hadn’t been strong enough to pull her up. She’d begged him to save her and he’d let her fall.

Clenching his hands into fists he welcomed the flare of pain in his shoulder, swallowed back the hollow ache that threatened to choke him. He couldn’t allow himself to think about that now. Not here, wherever here was. Not while the Watch might come for him at any moment. He couldn’t risk dwelling on it—on Erin—until he was somewhere safe.

A few more minutes teasing at the knot had the bandages unravelling in his hand. He pulled them away and cautiously cracked his eyes open. A shaft of moonlight fell across him, coming from somewhere behind his head. He blinked up at the high ceiling, gaze skittering across the spider’s web of cracks that marred the ageing plaster. The cracks blurred and wavered in his vision and something felt strange about the colour of the moonlight, but he brushed it aside as an aftereffect of sleeping for—how long had he been asleep? A pained hiss escaped him as he explored the dense tracery of stitches that held together the right side of his face. His fingers came away wet.

A glance to the left and right confirmed his suspicions: he was alone for the moment. The room was small and largely bare. The only furniture he could see was a wicker-seated wooden chair pulled up alongside the iron bedstead. It looked nothing like any hospital ward he’d seen. His gaze flicked to the door; she’d locked it as she left. If the Watch didn’t already know he was here, they would soon. Time to go.

Sitting up triggered a cascade of aches and twinges all over, along with a sharp pain over his ribs that left him fighting for breath. The throbbing pressure above his right ear brought with it a wave of dizziness and he clenched his teeth, fighting back the nausea. He pushed back the wool blanket and froze at the sight of the plaster encasing his left leg from the knee down. Instead of his leathers he wore a muddy-green shirt and charcoal-grey trousers, cut short to accommodate the cast. Under the shirt he found more bandages wrapped around his ribs, and another that circled his upper arms and looped behind him to pull his shoulders up and back. He scanned the room a second time; all his equipment was missing as well. When did …?

 _Garrett, I'm slipping!_ Glass shattered. An agonised scream rang in his ears and abruptly fell away. Light fractured, blinded him—

No. The blanket crumpled in his fist as he squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn't think about that now. He needed to get out of here before anyone realised he was awake. His ribs protested as he sucked in a shuddering breath and let it out slowly. Bracing his hand against the wall to his right he swung his legs over the side of the bed. He balanced precariously on the edge and felt around for the floor, only to find his feet dangling in midair. The bed was higher than he’d realised. He jumped down.

Pain shot up his leg. He stumbled sideways. Fell. Fire exploded in his shoulder and side as he hit the flagstones. He doubled over with a sharp cry. Fingers curled into claws that he pressed against his ribs as he struggled to breathe through the stabbing in his chest.

Running footsteps had him casting about desperately for somewhere—anywhere—to hide. But where were the shadows? Moonlight spilled across the floor from the high barred window, piercing every corner, cutting off any hope of escape. A key rattled in the lock.

“Thirty-one!”

He craned his head around to glimpse the blurry white figure framed in the doorway. The voice belonged to the same woman who had been in the room a few minutes earlier. A thread of fear broke through the pain to coil heavy in his gut.

“Douglas, I need you in here. Quickly.”

The figure in white rushed to his side where he lay sprawled next to the bed. He flinched, tried to shrink away. But even raising his head off the tile had his vision greying out. He sank back to the floor.

“Don’t try to move. Help is coming.”

A hand settled on his hip and he recoiled. Heat flared in his shoulder and he was unable to hold back the whimper. Black leather boots appeared by his head. Someone knelt beside him.

“Gently. His clavicle and ribs are broken.”

A shadow fell over him. Large hands took hold of his arms. He pulled away but the man held him fast. Icy fingers slithered up his spine. He lashed out with his foot and landed a glancing blow against the man’s ankle. The grip tightened. He couldn’t breathe. He thrashed, wrenched an arm loose. Clawed at the hands pinning him.

“Douglas, that’s enough! Let him go.”

The hands released him and were gone. Jerking backward he scrabbled at the flagstones until his back thumped against the wall. He gulped down air, his heart hammering its way through his ribs.

“Thirty-one, calm down. Breathe. In and out. Nice and slow. Douglas is going to sit with you while I fetch something that will help. He is not going to touch you. Do you understand?”

He stared at her but said nothing. Her skirts rustled as she rose to her feet and left the room. The man still knelt by the bed, watching him intently but showing no sign of coming any closer. His head throbbed and he laid it against the tile. Everything hurt.

She returned a few moments later, carrying a silver tray that she set down on the chair by the bed.

They both advanced on him, pushed him back, trapped him against the wall. He flinched away but there was nowhere to go. She caught his right wrist and pulled, pinned it to the floor with her knee. He felt a sharp sting in his arm.

“Just lie still. You'll feel better in a moment.”

Warmth washed over him. Adrenaline ebbed away, leaving him wrung out. He was so tired. Something clattered onto the tray. He heard a voice but the words floated away before he could catch them. Arms slid under him and lifted, and the room tilted around him. Pain lurked somewhere in the distance but none of it seemed to touch him. The cracks in the ceiling swam together lazily.

He heard buckles jingling, felt something cold loop around each of his wrists and tighten. As she moved on to his ankles he wondered if he ought to struggle, but his limbs were heavy and refused to respond. He thought he managed to twitch his fingers but wasn’t sure. It wasn’t until she brought the wide canvas strap across his chest that he felt a trickle of alarm, but it was soon engulfed by the encroaching fog. She took hold of his chin and turned his head to the left. Something soft was placed over his eyes and down his right cheek, the pressure growing as she rewrapped the bandage and pulled the knot tight behind his ear. The blanket was pulled up over him. He thought he heard the click of a door closing, but wondered if he’d imagined it.

He let himself drift.

Time passed, though he couldn’t be sure if it had been minutes, or hours, or even days.

 _Scrape_.

A low murmur of voices seeped through the door and faded again.

 _Scrape_.

It was coming from somewhere below him.

Silence.

An ache grew in his chest and he released the breath he’d been holding. He wondered what he’d been waiting for.

 _Scrape_.

He heard the whisper of cloth over brick, a shuffle of bare feet on flagstones. Warm air ghosted across his scalp. Something brushed against the bandage over his eyes and was gone again. There seemed a faint echo to each breath, as if a second chest rose and fell in time with his own.

But he was so tired and the fog rolled over him and through him. Everything was so far away, drifting further and further out of reach.

 

****

 

_6 26 NRy841: Feigned coma. Pulse rapid, Respiration slow without stertor. Unresponsive to verbal command. ~ Nurse Aubermill_

_6 26 NRy841: Regained consciousness. Agitated: violent when approached. Morphia, Restraints issued. ~ Nurse Aubermill_


	3. Chapter 3

Someone was whistling. The irritatingly cheerful tune wormed its way into Garrett’s ears to set up residence in company with the dull throbbing along the side of his head. Footsteps passed his door—two, maybe three people—accompanied by the rise and fall of conversation.

He tried to roll onto his side and was brought up short by something caught around his wrist and ankle. He tugged again, harder this time, but the sturdy leather cuffs had no give in them. As he tried to sit up something tightened across his chest, knocking him flat. A chill settled in his stomach. Without his hands he couldn’t reach the knot, he couldn’t pull the bandage away from his eyes. He couldn’t—

“So you finally decided to rejoin the living.”

The sharp tone stirred up long-buried echoes of starch and scrubbing brushes, the crack of a wooden ruler against raw knuckles. Garrett yanked at the cuffs again. Pain shot through his shoulder and down his arm.

“Stop that nonsense before you hurt yourself.” She clicked her tongue disapprovingly at him.

Something on the tray rattled as it was set down. Garrett felt the mattress shift as she leaned over him. He tensed, his hands twisting uselessly at the sheet. Cold enamel pressed against his lips. He tried to pull away, but her calloused fingers caught the back of his neck in a surprisingly strong grip. She forced the rim of the cup between his teeth, leaving him no choice but to swallow or choke. He hadn’t realised just how parched he was and it wasn’t until he’d nearly drained the cup that he noticed the water tasted strangely bitter.

“When you are finished, Nurse Thurlow?”

The cup jerked, forcing his head back with a painful jolt. It was quickly withdrawn and replaced on the tray.

“He’s ready for you now.” The words were respectful enough, but Garrett caught a hint of something in the tone that he couldn’t place.

“Excellent, thank you. I believe that Avery would appreciate some help downstairs as soon as you are free. Sixteen is having a difficult morning.”

“Very good, Doctor.” Nurse Thurlow gathered up the tray and left.

“Good morning, Thirty-one. How are you feeling?”

Garrett turned his head toward the voice but said nothing. Was she talking to him? He didn’t think there was anyone else in the room.

“I’m pleased to see you finally awake. You had us worried.” Her tone was pleasant, almost conversational. “My name is Doctor Stedmann, and I will be in charge of your care whilst you are with us.”

Under cover of the blanket Garrett began twisting his right hand in the cuff, trying to reach the buckles. The leather was thick but supple, worn smooth in places, and rotated freely around his wrist.

“Tell me about yourself.”

Garrett froze. Why would she even ask that? Why would any of that even matter to a doctor? He was suddenly aware of how his pulse thudded in his ears. Did she know who he was—had they told the Watch he was here?

“What brings you here?”

Something wasn’t right. If she was a doctor and this a hospital it should be obvious why he was here. He swallowed, shifting uncomfortably on the thin mattress. He felt too open, too exposed, painfully aware of her eyes boring into him.

“What were you doing at Northcrest Manor?”

His nails dug into his palms as he tried to drag his scattered thoughts into some kind of order. If they knew about the accident at the Manor … was this an interrogation?

Cool fingers touched his arm and he jerked away. The answering flare of pain in his shoulder had him wincing.

“Why did you try to assassinate Baron Northcrest?”

“I—” His teeth snapped shut with an audible click. Why would she … but they hadn’t … he and Erin … had they thought …? He caught himself tugging at the cuffs again and forced himself to lie still, his thoughts spinning in confused circles.

“You are fortunate the Baron is a forgiving man, Thirty-one. In a less enlightened age you’d be executed for treason.”

Forgiving? Baron Northcrest was many things, but forgiving wasn’t one of them. He’d never met the man—through the ceremony room skylight had been the first time he’d laid eyes on him—but he’d seen the smokestacks crowding the City skyline, heard the rumours. ‘Cold’ and ‘ruthless’ were the words whispered in dark corners.

No. If he wasn’t already at the end of a noose, it could only be because they had something worse in mind. The thought sent a cold shiver through him. Even if he managed to get himself free of the cuffs, he was in no shape to attempt an escape. He’d only get himself caught again. Or killed.

There was a sigh and a pat on his arm. “We’ll talk again another time.”

 

****

 

Time passed in fits and starts, leaving him adrift, unable to say for certain how long it had been. Every so often he tested the cuffs as if something might have changed since the last futile attempt. Twisting his hand around as far as he could brought his questing fingers close enough to brush the leather strap threaded through the buckle, but he could gain no purchase. All he gained for his efforts were aching wrists. The chill draught spilling in between the bars of the open window behind his head had him wishing that he could pull the blanket closer about himself.

Twice more Nurse Thurlow returned to force him to drink the bitter-tasting water. At unknown intervals he heard his door open and shut. Several times he wondered whether he shouldn’t be more alarmed that they could come in whenever they wanted, that he was helpless to stop them doing whatever they chose or even see them coming. But it was difficult to focus beyond the sick, hollow feeling growing in his stomach and the pounding in his head, and the thought kept drifting out of his reach.

Robbed of sight, he was forced to rely on only the shifting rhythms of … of—here—to keep himself oriented. The longer he listened, the less certain he became that this was a hospital. Almost too soft to hear was the constant lapping of water. But the City General Hospital in Dayport was too far from the North River for the sound to carry, and where was the clamour of the wharfs that should have accompanied it? Where even was the sound from the street outside? Instead he heard only the screaming of seagulls. But despite the cuffs, neither did this seem to be a prison. He heard no rattling of chains, and none of the fidgeting and complaining he would expect from stationed guards.

He startled awake from an uneasy doze as someone coughed nearby. Garrett kept his head turned away and pretended to sleep. He had nothing to say to anyone.

“You don’t fool me, lad. I know you’re awake.” The deep voice had a lilting burr to it that Garrett had sometimes heard from sailors down in Riverside.

The legs of the chair scraped across the floor as it was pulled further out into the room and a tray set down. The smell of some kind of broth reached him—mutton, perhaps. Nausea rose in the back of his throat.

“You don’t have to talk to me, but I’m not going away ‘til I’m done.”

Garrett took a breath and let it out slowly. He turned his head toward the voice.

“That’s better.” Garrett could hear the smile in the words. “You can call me Douglas, but if any of the nurses are listening then it’s Attendant Barrie, alright?”

Garrett said nothing. He had no intention of calling the man anything if he could avoid it.

“Come on, let’s get you up.”

The chest strap jerked uncomfortably as Douglas unbuckled it, but the relief as it was pulled away more than made up for Garrett’s aching ribs. Any hope of his hands being freed was quickly abandoned as a heavy arm slipped behind his shoulders and helped him to sit up. Douglas’ arm around him was an unwelcome but necessary support. Garrett ducked his head, wanting to pull away but knowing that he’d only fall over if he tried. His temples began to ache and he realised he was grinding his teeth together.

“Sorry, lad. Those don’t come off ‘til the good Doctor says.”

The smell of broth grew stronger and Garrett’s stomach suddenly rebelled. The surge of nausea had him doubled over, fighting to breathe past the stabbing pain from his ribs. He was vaguely aware of Douglas rubbing his back as he dry-retched, murmuring something he couldn’t make out. Several long minutes passed before the spasms eased.

“The poppy tea is rough when you’re not used to it. It’ll get easier in a few days.”

Poppy tea? Garrett’s fingers clenched in the sheet. The bitterness—that hadn't been water that Nurse Thurlow had forced on him. The thought she could do something like that without him knowing had his insides twisting worse than the nausea. Even knowing, there was nothing he could do to stop her from doing as she pleased.

“Here, now.” Douglas pressed something hot against his lips. “Slowly. Don’t gulp it.”

The rich aroma had Garrett realising just how hungry he was, despite the roiling in his stomach. He didn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. It had to have been before everything went so disastrously wrong … before Erin died. _Erin_ —

He shoved the thought away, refusing to let himself dwell on it. He needed to focus on himself now, on getting himself out of here before they carried out whatever sentence they intended for him. Though right now he couldn’t see how, not until they freed his hands. Right now he couldn’t even stop them from drugging him. A chill ran through him. What if the broth was tainted as well? He wouldn’t be able to trust anything they offered him. He pressed his lips together and turned his head away.

“Don’t give me that. You were out for days; you’ve got to be starving.”

Garrett shook his head. He’d gone hungry before. He could do it again.

“Come on, lad. If you don’t cooperate with me I’ll have to report it, and then it’ll be the stomach pump tomorrow. You don’t want that.”

Garrett swallowed, his fingers twisting in the sheet. He wasn’t sure what exactly Douglas was threatening him with, but he was sure he didn’t want to find out. Defeated, he opened his mouth and drank. The broth sat warm and heavy in his stomach, and he felt some of the tension ease.

“I know you weren’t trying to hurt me last night. Just got scared … that right?”

Garrett found himself nodding before he realised what he was doing.

“Ach, lad. You got off to a bad start. Once they start thinking you dangerous, ‘tis hard to change their minds.” The arm around his shoulders loosened and Garrett grabbed at the sheet as he felt himself fall backward. “Easy, there. Don’t fight it; I’ve got you.”

As soon as his spine hit the mattress Garrett tried to twist away. A large hand on his right shoulder gently but firmly pushed him back down. Struggling got him nowhere—he just couldn’t find enough leverage to break the hold.

“You don’t want to be doing that. You let the Doctor hear about you fighting and making a fuss, and you’ll just be proving her right.”

Garrett turned his head away and dug his nails into his palms as Douglas fastened the chest strap. This wasn’t happening—it wasn’t. He’d just hit his head when the skylight broke. He just needed to wake up and find a shadow to hide in before the Watch came to investigate the explosion.

“I’ve worked here long enough to know dangerous when I see it. ‘Tisn’t so hard to know who’s violent and who’s just scared, once you know what to look for.” Douglas pulled the blanket back up over him and turned away to gather up the tray.

“Wait.” The sound of his own rasping whisper surprised him. Just how long had he been out for?

“What is it, lad?”

Garrett swallowed, hesitating. The thought of trusting anyone grated on him. He couldn’t afford to show weakness. Not now, not here. But until he found his bearings he didn’t stand a chance of escaping. “Where …?”

“No-one told you yet?” Garrett flinched as Douglas turned back to the bed and rested his hand on the edge of the blanket. “You’re in the Moira Asylum, lad. You’re sick, and the good Doctor is going to get you well again.”

Douglas continued talking but Garrett couldn’t follow, the words drowned out by the ringing in his ears. Moira. Even the name sent a shiver through him. Moira was where society ladies were sent to avoid scandal, where they sent the vacant-eyed beggars who argued with demons only they could see. Where they sent deranged killers who butchered their families. Rowed out to Moira was when _they wanted you to disappear_.

“Just be keeping your head down, and you’ll do right.”

A warm grip squeezed his hand and was gone. The heavy footsteps walking away sounded muffled, as if coming from somewhere underwater. He barely heard the sound of the door closing or the key turning in the lock.

 

****

 

_6 26 NRy841: Extractum papaveris dilutioribus, four times daily. ~ Nurse Thurlow_

_6 26 NRy841: Patient #31 is reluctant to answer questions, making it impossible to assess any history of prior symptoms. Speculating purely from reports of the assassination attempt and the extensive specialised equipment he was carrying, it seems likely that his condition has persisted for some time and that his admission represents an acute worsening of chronic insanity rather than the first onset of illness. Prompting failed to shed any light, as Patient #31 was unable to engage in conversation and displayed signs of anxiety and paranoia. He showed no indications toward violence during examination. Given the circumstances prompting his admission and the events of last night, however, continuing restraint would be prudent at this time for his own safety and to rule out the potential of further violence. Tentative diagnosis: monomania. Further observation is required for confirmation, and to determine the specifics of his delusions. Hydrotherapy will not be possible until he recovers from injuries sustained in the incident. In the interim, schedule for sensory deprivation to calm his agitation. ~ Doctor Stedmann_

_6 26 NRy841: Attendant Barrie reports nausea and disorientation to place. Capable of speech, but withdrawn and with limited attention span. ~ Nurse Thurlow_


	4. Chapter 4

“This one? Where’s his jacket?”

The bored-sounding voice outside his door was unfamiliar.

“Cannae be using one ‘til he mends.”

Several sets of footsteps crossed the room toward him. The trundle of wooden wheels against the flagstones had the hair on the back of his neck prickling. After three days—as near as he could tell, when day and night were both equally dark to him and the only markers of time passing came from choking on poppy tea at what he assumed were regular intervals—the routine had settled into a monotony that, if not remotely comfortable, was at least becoming predictable. He doubted that the sudden deviation could signify anything good. The dull pain from the bruising around his wrists sharpened and he realised he was tugging at the cuffs again. By the time the footsteps came to a stop beside him he was holding his breath, acutely aware of every rustle of cheap broadcloth and creak of shoe leather.

“Easy, lad. It’s just me.” Douglas’ voice was low and reassuring, though Garrett refused to believe it for a moment. “These gentlemen are here to take you downstairs.”

“Don’t you give us any shit, you hear? Shift’s nearly over and I got places to be.”

Someone leaned over him and pulled the blanket away, tossing it onto the floor beyond the foot of the bed.

“Glaikit bastard.”

Hands jerked at the straps holding him down. The jingle of buckles pulling free seemed almost deafening in the confined space. He flexed his hands and wrists, working the stiffness out of joints that clicked and popped after being trapped for so long in one position. Douglas helped him to sit up.

“This is going to be uncomfortable, but it’ll be over before you know it.” Garrett stiffened as Douglas took hold of him around the waist and pulled him sideways toward the edge of the mattress. “Now relax and don’t be fighting me. Jacob, keep the chair steady.”

Pain flared as his shoulder and side were pressed hard against Douglas’ chest. A hand slipped beneath his knees and lifted. The sudden feeling of weightlessness startled him and he grabbed at the side of the bed to steady himself. Someone slapped his hands away.

“Cut that out, you damn lunatic.”

“You be seeing to your own patients, Carl, and let me take care of mine.”

Garrett bit back a whimper as the arms around him tightened, crushing his ribs. Douglas lowered him into a wicker chair, then knelt to guide his feet onto some kind of wooden platform. The chair jolted backward suddenly and he snatched at the armrests to stop himself toppling over.

“I said hold it steady.”

There was a derisive snort from behind him. “It’s easier than fighting with ‘em.”

Carl leaned over him to pin his hands against the armrests as leather straps tightened around his wrists. Garrett flinched and tried to pull free but Carl pressed down harder until he was certain he was going to break bones.

He tried to distract himself by keeping count of the turnings and distances as Jacob wheeled him out of the room and down the corridor, Carl following along behind. At intervals they passed side corridors that echoed back the humming from the wooden wheels. After a short distance they paused for Carl to unlock a door, which he relocked as soon as they had passed through. Without any clues to the asylum layout Garrett wasn’t sure if he’d have to come this way when he escaped, but given the bars on his window and how careful they were about keeping the doors locked it was fast becoming clear that he’d have to contend with several layers of security no matter which route he found.

Without warning the wheelchair tipped sharply backward, jarring his spine against the backrest. A series of stomach-lurching jerks followed as they descended a flight of steps, followed by yet another door to be unlocked and relocked. The wheels jolted as they passed over a threshold of some kind, the floor abruptly changing from stone to ribbed metal. The rattle and screech of the lifting mechanism set his teeth on edge as the elevator slowly descended.

Garrett couldn’t be certain if this was a sign that his room was located on an upper floor or whether their destination lay in a basement, though something about the way the shifting echoes deepened as they left the elevator and the low rumble of a generator somewhere in the distance had him suspecting the latter. Water dripped nearby and heavy pipework gurgled as they travelled yet another corridor. The air became heavy and still, the briny smell that permeated the ward upstairs replaced by a fug of sharper chemical odours almost pungent enough to taste. The skin along his arms prickled from the chill in the air and he suppressed a shiver. A heavy metal door opened and Jacob pushed him through, coming to a stop after a few paces.

“You cut it close.”

The wheelchair frame creaked as Jacob leaned his weight against the handles. “Not our fault if them upstairs don’t have the notes ready when we get there.”

“I’ll let you explain that to Doctor Huntfield then. He’s due in a few minutes and I still need to get … who is this?” Whoever this was, she was young—she didn’t sound much older than Erin.

“Thirty-one.”

“Right.” There was a rustling of paper. “Get on with it then.”

Jacob shoved Garrett forward in the wheelchair and held him down with a hand on the back of his neck. Heat shot through his ribs as Carl released one hand from its strap and folded it across his chest for Jacob to grip his wrist tightly from behind. They repeated the process with his other hand while Garrett fought for breath through gritted teeth. Douglas’ warning rang in his mind and he struggled to swallow back the rising panic. If he resisted now they’d only hurt him worse. Carl bent to take hold of Garrett’s legs.

They lifted him out of the chair in what was evidently a well-practised move. Something shifted in his shoulder and he recoiled with a yelp. Jacob swore at him and tightened his grip. There was a _crack_ , and then pain crashed over him. He couldn’t find the breath to scream. His back thumped hard against something that knocked the air out of him, sending a jolt of fire down his leg. Pain radiated in sickly waves from his shoulder as they shackled him to the table.

Fingers probed at his shoulder, sending shivers racing through him. He whimpered and tried to pull away, only to freeze as something grated with the movement.

“Rork’s teeth! Can’t you clods be more careful with them? I think you’ve broken his collarbone.”

“Hey, don’t look at me. Look at the notes: it was broken already.”

“Just get out. I’ll call for you when we’re done with him.”

Garrett flinched at the _snick_ behind his ear. There was a muffled thud as the scissors dropped onto the table next to him. Gentle hands began unwinding the bandages from his head. As successive layers came away the darkness around him lessened, taking on a reddish hue through his closed eyelids. Water was dripped over the last few layers to soften them and he spluttered as the excess ran into his mouth and up his nose.

“Sorry. Hold on, I’m nearly done.”

The last of the bandages were pulled away and Garrett opened his eyes to find himself staring into an electric lamp that hung directly overhead. After days of nothing but pitch darkness, the sudden brightness hurt. He jerked his head away, screwing his eyes shut against the blinding glare and the renewed surge of pain from his shoulder.

Fierce stinging spread across his cheek as she dribbled something over the lacerations and through his hair. He hissed and flinched as some of it trickled into his right eye. A cold knot formed in his chest as the overhead bulb blurred and doubled. He blinked furiously, his eyes tearing up. What had she done? She could maim him, and not even notice. He had to get away before something worse happened. But if he couldn’t see …

A wet cloth wrung out over his eye eased some of the burning. “You need to keep still. You’re making this harder for me.”

The metal clang as the door opened startled him. A blurry white-coated figure stood silhouetted in the doorway.

“I’m almost finished.” She turned away to drop the cloth into one of the enamel basins arranged on a nearby table.

“Almost isn’t good enough, Huxley. I have better things to do than be kept waiting.”

“I’m sorry, Doctor Huntfield.”

Doctor Huntfield grunted dismissively as he approached the table. Garrett kept his expression as neutral as possible, refusing to acknowledge the pressure in his chest that made it hard to breathe. He was fairly sure this wasn’t an interrogation. If he was here at the Baron’s orders then it was a safe assumption the Thief-Taker General knew of it. And if they had mistaken him for an assassin, then from what he knew of Harlan he doubted the man would delegate the task to anyone else—there’d be too much risk of someone else getting the credit. So why was he here? What did they want from him?

Garrett steeled himself to meet Huntfield’s eyes but the man didn’t even look at him. A deft, precise grip on his jaw pulled his head around to better examine his cheek. The probing fingers were cold as they pressed against the side of his head. Huntfield’s disinterested gaze bored through him as if he were no more than a laboratory specimen and Garrett squeezed his eyes shut, unsettled by the close scrutiny.

“This will do.”

Huxley pressed a leather pad against the back of Garrett’s neck. It curved, fitting closely to the base of his skull. Metal clinked behind him and then two more pads settled against his temples. He heard her tighten a screw and tried to turn to look, realising with mounting horror that he could no longer move his head. His chest tightened as his heart raced. He clenched his jaw, digging his nails into his palms. He couldn’t afford to panic now.

The white coat soon became nothing but a hazy outline that passed out of his sight altogether as Huntfield moved around the table behind him. Huntfield snapped his fingers impatiently over Garrett’s head.

“Nurse Huxley!”

Light flashed off a blade. Ice flooded through him as Huxley dropped the surgical knife into Huntfield’s waiting palm. He couldn’t breathe. The shackles clattered against the table. Someone spoke but the words were drowned out by the thrashing of his pulse in his ears.

A hand clamped down on his shoulder. He yelped, shock rippling through him.

“Look at me.” Huxley leaned over him, blocking his view of the knife. “Forget about what's happening. This will hurt but it will be over quickly. The sooner you cooperate, the faster you can be out of here. Do you understand?”

Garrett narrowed his eyes at her, but the blurry images refused to come into focus. He clutched at the edges of the table, bracing himself until only a faint rattling from the shackles betrayed the tremors he couldn’t quite control.

“If you are quite finished coddling him?”

Huxley let go his shoulder and pulled back, chastened. She turned away to pick up the smallest of the enamel basins.

“I'm sorry, Doctor Huntfield.”

Reflections glittered off the blade as it hovered above him. Garrett tightened his grip on the table to suppress the flinch as it touched lightly against his cheek. His gaze slipped up past the knife to the man wielding it and he found himself scanning the indistinct pale blur where Huntfield bent over him, desperately searching for something but uncertain just what he was looking for.

Garrett forced himself to look away, dropping his attention to where Huxley’s free hand rested on the table by his head. Her nails were neatly clipped, river pearls set against skin the warm brown of smoky quartz.

The cold sting sent a shudder through him.

The need to flee was nearly overwhelming. His hands ached where they gripped the table, its edges digging lines across his palms. A hot ache throbbed in his shoulder where she’d grabbed him. The folded towel under his head was cold and damp, and smelled faintly of flint.

A sharp tug, and something pulled free.

His eye was burning. Light from the bulb overhead beat down on him, growing brighter and brighter. Unable to turn away he squeezed his eyes shut, the lingering afterimages still bright enough to blind him. Wetness pooled, seeping in a thin trickle from the corner of his eye.

Something fell into the basin.

The knife traced slow arcs from his mouth up across his cheek to his eye and into his hairline before moving to the side of his head, leaving behind stinging trails as Huntfield cut and removed the stitches one by one. Garrett soon lost count of the pinpricks, each merging into the next until he could no longer distinguish between them.

No-one spoke, the silence broken only by the faint buzzing of the overhead bulb and the distant grumbling of the generator. Garrett slowly became aware of another sound right on the edge of his hearing. At first he wasn’t sure if he was imagining the quiet clicking. Something about it didn’t feel mechanical. The clicking slowly seeped through him until he found himself breathing in time with it.

The knife clattered as it dropped into the basin and Garrett flinched, his eyes snapping open. Huntfield turned away from the table to scrub his hands over the sink against the wall.

“Doctor Huntfield?”

“What is it?”

“Attendant Henning was pretty rough with him when they brought him down. I think you should look at his collarbone.” Huxley’s voice wavered as if she was uncertain whether to broach the subject.

“His _clavicle_ is broken. As you ought to know already, given that you assisted me in setting it last week.” Huntfield finished drying his hands and threw the towel down next to the sink. “If your memory is so poor, Nurse Huxley, perhaps you should reconsider your choice of profession.”

“But—”

“Was there anything else?”

“No, Doctor Huntfield.”

Once Huntfield was safely out of the room, Huxley moved to the head of the table and released the clamp. The relief of being able to move his head again had the weight lifting from Garrett’s chest.

“Coopered old goat, treating me like a bleater.”

Huxley stepped outside to call for Jacob and Carl. On returning she retrieved a thin file from somewhere below the table, leaning a hip against it as she thumbed through the pages. Garrett craned his head trying to look over her elbow but the handwritten scrawl was too dense and the letters all blurred and ran together.

“Thought you’d never be done.” Carl headed for the corner where they’d stashed the wheelchair.

Huxley sniffed and set the file down. “Why do you care? He’s the last one for today. I’d have thought getting paid to sit around would make you shirksters happy.”

Jacob leaned against the end of the table, planting a doughy hand to each side of Garrett’s head. Tall and broad-shouldered he loomed over Garrett, his shadow mercifully blocking out the light. The sleeves of his uniform jacket were several inches too short and worn smooth at the cuffs.

“Shift was over twenty minutes ago. Not a chance we’ll get done in time for the boat now, thanks to you.”

Carl set about unlocking the shackles as Jacob slid his hands under Garrett’s shoulders, ragged-bitten nails catching on Garrett’s shirt. Something in his shoulder jarred with the movement and he hissed, gritting his teeth.

“Just watch what you’re doing. You can’t go knocking them about like that.”

“How ‘bout you mind your own business?” Jacob snapped.

Rough hands jerked at him as they hoisted him off the table. Sharp edges ground against each other. Gave way. _Snapped_. A sickening lurch. Agony. Someone was screaming. Shouting. The pounding of running feet.

Darkness.

 

****

 

Voices floated through the fog surrounding him.

“I tried to tell him, Doctor Stedmann. He wouldn’t listen to me.”

Something soft but firm had been wedged under the small of his back to lift his torso off the bed. A hand cradled his neck to keep him from falling.

“Raise your hand a little more. You have to support his cervical spine.” A drawn-out sigh. “Huntfield can be … well, he’s not the easiest surgeon to work with.”

Someone gripped his upper arm and gently pulled it out to the side. Heat flared in his shoulder to chase away the lingering fog. He stiffened, nails digging into his palms.

“He’s waking up.”

A hand took hold of his and squeezed, forcing his fingers to straighten again. “Stop that. Just relax and lie still. You'll feel better soon.”

His eyes flickered open. Two hazy figures stood over him, one clad in white, the other in black. He thought he recognised Huxley, her white uniform sleeves unbuttoned and rolled back to the elbow as she supported his head.

“This wasn’t your fault. Don’t worry about Doctor Huntfield. I’ll make sure he can’t damage your record.” Deft hands looped a bandage in a figure of eight behind his back and across his shoulders. He tried to stop her but she brushed his hand away. “Fight me like that and I'll have to use the restraints.”

“I appreciate that, Doctor Stedmann, but …”

“He’ll still teach you, Irene. He has to. Put your hand here—can you feel the displacement?” Warm fingers traced lightly along his left shoulder. “Good. Tell me when you feel the ends come back into alignment. “

Stedmann pried open his jaw, forcing a thick wooden dowel between his teeth.

“But—”

Stedmann’s voice dropped to a barely audible murmur. “Doctor Huntfield needs someone who can put up with him. Have you any idea how difficult it is to draw up the nursing rotations for Reformation and the Treatment Centre? Before you joined us Nurse Thurlow practically had to bully everyone into taking their turn.”

The figure of eight steadily tightened. He bit down on the dowel. A howl echoed off the tiles as the grinding in his shoulder sent shivers of pain through him. His shoulders were drawn up and back until his shoulderblades nearly touched.

“I feel it.”

Stedmann tied a knot to hold the bandage in place. A dull ache soon grew in his neck and spread across his shoulders. It felt much tighter than the first had been. Had Jacob injured him worse than the fall from the ceremony room skylight had? A sour thread coiled in his chest. What would this mean for his chances of escaping? He wouldn't be able to climb until his shoulder healed, he knew that much.

The rolled blanket was tugged out from behind his back as they lowered him onto the bed. Someone pulled the dowel away and he worked his jaw to get rid of the ache. The mattress shifted and he opened his eyes to find Stedmann leaning over him. The smell of poppy tea reached him and his heart sank. Did they plan to keep him drugged indefinitely? He threw a hand up to fend her off, turned his head away. A stab of pain from his shoulder had him wincing.

Stedmann caught his wrist in a gentle grip. “Don't be stubborn. You're going to need this. Would you rather be in pain?”

Garrett stared at her, trying to make sense of the confusion as his eyes refused to focus. Closing his right eye helped to shut out the blurriness, until the image resolved and he could make out the spill of starched lace at her throat, stark white against the rich velvet brown of her skin. The look in her amber eyes puzzled him. It couldn't be sympathy—he didn't want to see that. He looked away, finding the mottled plaster of the wall to his right suddenly very interesting.

Stedmann sighed. “You can drink it voluntarily, or I can have Nurse Huxley force you. It's up to you.”

Garrett clenched his jaw. The thought of meekly allowing her to sedate him was a lead weight in his stomach. But if he didn't—he could still feel the cup forcing its way between his teeth, the contents choking him as they trickled down the back of his throat …

The bitter taste of poppy tea coated his tongue. Stedmann allowed him to drink at his own pace, pausing every so often to let him catch his breath.

“It will take several days for the callus to form and longer still before your bones start knitting together. Until they do, any violent movement is going to tear them apart again.” She handed the empty cup to Huxley, who started gathering up the bandages, dowel and various other items onto the silver tray. “Now, either you promise me that you'll cooperate—and that means staying put in bed and no fighting with my nurses—or I can order the restraints back on until you've healed enough that you won't hurt yourself again. Do you understand me?”

Garrett stared at the wall, gritting his teeth. He didn't need to be talked down to like a child. Taking a breath and letting it out slowly, he nodded.

“You're neither deaf nor mute. Attendant Barrie reports that you spoke to him. I want to hear you say it.”

“Yes.”

“That's much better. You're here with us to cure your insanity, but you'll never recover unless you trust me and allow us to help you.”

“I'm not—”

Doctor Stedmann’s bright smile sent a chill through him. “One step at a time.”

 

****

 

_6 29 NRy841: Scalp and facial lacerations: removed stitches, healing adequately. ~ Doctor Huntfield_

_6 29 NRy841: Nurse Huxley reports complications arising during the previous entry. Accidental mishandling by Attendants Henning and Whitby resulted in reinjury to the left clavicle: left distal displaced clavicle fracture reduced and figure-eight bandage applied. Patient #31 has agreed to comply with medical advice and shows initial signs of engaging with the therapeutic relationship. However, he lacks insight into his condition, insisting that he is not insane. Restraints removed. Extractum papaveris dilutioribus, four times daily. ~ Doctor Stedmann_


	5. Chapter 5

Even in the dead of night the City was never truly dark. There was always a lantern burning somewhere to throw the shadows into stark relief. Nighttime in Moira, however, was dark as the inside of a mausoleum. At irregular intervals the diamond-paned fanlight over his door revealed secondhand flickering from the Night Warden’s candle as he moved through the ward, but the only other illumination came from the faint silvery starlight seeping in through the barred window behind him.

Even the moon was absent tonight. It had been waning gibbous the last he remembered. For tonight to be the new moon, perhaps ten days must have passed since he and Erin had fought atop the skylight. If he was right about the three days he thought might have elapsed since he'd woken as a prisoner here … Seven days. Somewhere he'd lost seven days.

Something tightened in his chest at the memory of the fight. The shock and outrage on Erin’s face as she touched the blood on her cheek … He hadn’t meant to hit her with the claw when she lunged at him—he’d flinched, reacted without thinking. Dropped the claw to clatter onto the skylight. But Erin was a fool to go clambering after it—that wasn’t his fault. She had to have seen the roof was collapsing under them. Why couldn’t she have just listened to him? If she’d just listened …

His right eye throbbed, setting off an answering flare of pain in his head. He pressed the heel of his hand to his head, trying to ease the burning. It had lessened a little since nightfall when they finally—finally—turned out the lights in the corridor. But his eye still hurt, even now. He pushed the thought away. There was nothing he could do about it—the damage was done. Whatever Huxley had done to him, it would heal. It had to heal.

Without climbing down from the bed to look out it was hard to tell for certain, but there didn't seem to be any of the City lights on the horizon. On a clear night Moira’s squat silhouette could be glimpsed lurking across the water from the South Quarter docks and from certain vantage points in the Old Quarter. He ought to be able to see the lights. His room must be on the south side of the building, nothing but open sea visible from the window.

Garrett catalogued the detail away as a starting point for his mental map of the asylum layout, anxious to begin preparations for his escape even if it might be days—or weeks—before he recovered enough to put any plans into action. With his leg in the cast he couldn't walk on his own, let alone run if he needed to. He wasn't even sure he'd be able to climb down from the high bed without falling again, the way he had that first night. But he knew how to be patient, how to bide his time until the first opportunity presented himself.

He pulled the blanket closer around himself and curled on his side facing the wall, careful to avoid jarring his shoulder. He tugged the pillow further down the mattress until it no longer pressed against the sore spot along the side of his head. After days trapped flat on his back by the cuffs, just being able to move again had him breathing a little easier. It bothered him to be feeling relief over something so inconsequential. He was still a captive, still confined to the bed. He was still every bit as exposed and vulnerable to anyone who walked in. It shouldn’t make any difference to him—he had no business feeling grateful to his captors. And yet … the warmth and weight of the blanket around him was reassuring in a way he didn’t want to admit. It felt … solid. Real. It helped counter the unsettling sensation he was floating.

He wondered if Doctor Stedmann’s poppy tea had been stronger than he’d become accustomed to. He’d grown to hate the way the tea Nurse Thurlow forced on him left him sleepy and stole his concentration, but this felt … hollow, somehow. Like the summer breezes that drifted through the clock tower, scattered all his notes and papers, and—

_Scrape_.

Garrett curled himself tighter, pulling the blanket up over his head. It was nothing. Most likely one of the patients about to kick off another bout of yelling or screaming. Nothing that concerned him.

_Scrape_.

It seemed to be coming from somewhere close by. From inside his room? He found himself holding his breath, waiting for the sound to come again.

_Scrape_.

Scuffling came from under the bed and he froze, clutching at the blanket. That had been too big to be a rat. Was someone in here with him? Unease trickled down his spine. Footsteps padded across the room, almost noiseless against the flagstones. Bare feet. The door handle rattled softly, testing the lock. He concentrated on keeping his breathing slow and regular, trying to suppress the instinct to scramble for the nearest hiding place. If they thought him asleep maybe he'd escape unnoticed. Shuffling came from directly behind him. His breath hitched. He desperately wanted to turn and look, but if he did whoever it was would know he was awake.

Long thin fingers closed around his shoulder. Pressed lightly against the fracture. Pain shot through him and he flinched despite himself. The low silky laugh sent a shiver through him. Unable to keep up the pretence of sleep any longer he opened his eyes, lifting his head to look round. The fingers tightened in silent warning. He stilled, swallowing back the urge to jerk away.

The blanket was yanked out of his hands and dropped on the floor. A hand clenched in his hair, forced his head back. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of pale, almost translucent, skin, a curve of reflected starlight gleaming from the shaven head. Dark, mud-green, the shirt a match for his own. A patient. But … how?

Footsteps echoed from the corridor outside. A faint glow of bobbing candlelight shone through the fanlight. The hand in his hair jerked, then released and was gone. Garrett rolled over, but there was no-one behind him. Gripping the edge of the bed to stop himself falling he leaned over the side. The scraping sound coming from under the bed reminded him of the unearthly racket Erin always made running across clay tiles.

Had made.

Night air spilling in through the window prickled across his skin. He curled on his side, arms wrapped around himself to suppress the shivering. Tried not to think about the blanket lying in a heap on the floor, far out of his reach. Tried not to think about Erin.

_Erin_ …

 

****

 

Garrett raised himself up one elbow as the door opened. A stout, barrel-chested man stood framed in the doorway, stray lamplight from the corridor catching in the thinning hair. Memory flashed back to the glow of starlight. He hadn't dreamed it, had he? No—the chill stiffness in his aching limbs, the blanket still crumpled on the floor—there had been a patient in his room last night.

He eyed the wheelchair suspiciously as it was pushed towards him. The dark uniform jacket was the same as Carl and Jacob wore—they weren't taking him back down to the basement. Were they? He swallowed. He couldn't afford to get injured again.

“How are you feeling, lad? I hear yesterday didnae go so well.”

Garrett nodded, looking away. He didn't want to answer that. Didn't know how to answer that. Douglas was … his lilting voice had become the one solid anchor in this nightmare. But no amount of kind words or false reassurances could prove him trustworthy or disguise his role as Garrett’s jailer.

“You get to be going downstairs today. Cannae be lying around in here forever.” Douglas retrieved the blanket from the floor and bundled it at the end of the bed as Garrett pushed himself up to sit. “Here, now. Same as yesterday.”

Someone rapped on the door. Garrett jerked, startled.

“You done yet?”

“Almost.” Douglas settled Garrett into the chair. “You remember Nurse Aubermill, don't you?”

Garrett thought he recognised the voice, but wasn't sure. The memory of waking that first night was too hazy to be certain. He twisted round to get a look at her as she set a silver tray on the end of the bed. Wavy straw-coloured hair sat scraped back from the flushed rounded face, firmly pinned under the cloth cap.

Douglas pulled a coiled leather strap from his pocket. Garrett flinched back, his eyes widening. They wouldn't … Stedmann had promised she wouldn't use restraints as long as he cooperated. He’d done everything they wanted. Hadn't he? He should have known he couldn't trust anyone here to keep their word.

“Don't look so worried, lad.”

Passing the strap around Garrett's waist, Douglas threaded the ends under the armrests to fasten the buckle behind the seat. It sat loose across his lap, enough to prevent him from falling or climbing out, but with sufficient slack that as long as he was careful not to look at it he could pretend it didn't exist.

Nurse Aubermill took hold of his left wrist and pulled it across his chest to make him grip the opposite shoulder. “Hold that there and lean forward for me, will you?”

The sling chafed uncomfortably with every jolt as the wheels clicked over misalignments between the flagstones. Garrett rubbed at his neck, trying to ease the pressure. At least they’d left his right hand free. He laid his hand flat in his lap, careful to keep Nurse Aubermill’s pen hidden under the curve of his palm.

The ward was much bigger than he’d previously thought. The long, high-ceilinged corridor outside his room was deserted. Similar to those in his room, parchment-coloured tiles lined the lower portion of the walls with plaster above, accented by a blue stripe that stretched the length of the corridor. A chill breeze drifted from the open windows at the far end. Doors lined the right-hand wall at regular intervals … M10 … M08 … he supposed there must be another corridor nearby, a twin to this one that housed the odd-numbered rooms. Just how many rooms did the ward hold? How many other wards were there just like this one?

“It's a relief to be back over this side. The past few days have been one crisis after another in the Women’s Ward. Something's got them all on edge.”

Douglas grunted. “There’s been a fair amount of upset with the lads. ‘Tis excitement left over from Summertide, no doubt.”

Glancing sideways to ensure neither of them were watching him Garrett slid the pen into a fold of his sling, making sure no lumps showed to betray its presence.

“I’m not so sure. It’s not just high spirits, or even hysterics. It's only been getting worse this past week. Eighteen’s shouting loud enough to wake half the ward every night, and you know how the Dreamer gets when she's overtired.”

Metal squealed in protest as Douglas forced open the iron gate that blocked the elevator. Judging from the rust that flaked away from the bars as the gate scraped upward in its track it seemed that this lift saw much less use than the one that yesterday had led to the basement.

Sunlight filtered through the rippled glass windows lining the open elevator shaft. The sudden glare blinded him as they descended. As a rule he would never be up and about during the day like this—the bright daylight bordered on painful for eyes accustomed to picking out details in the darkest of shadows. The throbbing in his right eye intensified. He brought his hand to his head, trying to rub away the needling pain.

“Everything alright, lad?”

Garrett chose to ignore the question, instead holding his hand over his eye to block out the worst of the blurriness as he surveyed the large hall in front of him. Benches and tables stood in rows across the centre of the space, angled to offer a side-on view of the low stage that opened along the left wall, its heavy dark curtains drawn back to reveal a stained backdrop. Crockery clattered in the far corner where a low wall partitioned off the kitchen range from the hall proper.

Maybe a quarter of the tables were occupied by men clad in green and grey, some clustered together in small knots of two or three, others eating alone. Garrett’s gaze flicked from patient to patient, searching for any hint as to the identity of last night’s visitor. Maybe a third of the patients had shaved heads, and nearly every pale face he saw was ashen in a way that suggested few had seen direct sunlight in weeks, if not months. It could have been any of them. Garrett clenched his fingers in his hair, exposed and itching to dart for the nearest dark corner.

Douglas pushed the wheelchair over to the end of the nearest table where Garrett could reach it without a bench getting in the way. Garrett eyed the other occupants. Most were too intent on their food to pay him any notice. A ruddy-faced man in a white canvas jacket glared back at him from where he sat to Garrett’s left. Steel-grey eyes raked Garrett from head to foot and back again. Garrett dropped his gaze, uneasy at the frank appraisal. Eventually the man grunted and went back to eating. Leather straps stitched into his jacket sleeves trailed across the table and narrowly avoided falling into his plate as he tore the bread into pieces.

Crumbs littered the table. The dark-skinned patient hunched over at the far end of the bench seemed lost in arranging the breadcrumbs into a complicated pattern that felt oddly familiar. It was similar to some of the symbols Garrett had seen carved into the stonework of the old chapel that the Queen of Beggars called home. Perhaps this was one of her beggars? He wouldn't be surprised if more than a few of them found themselves imprisoned in Moira.

His stomach lurched as the room seemed to tilt around him. Did the Queen of Beggars know they were here? Did she know that _he_ was here? He'd long accepted she knew more than anyone about events in the City, though he'd always wondered just where she got her information. If he could get a message to her somehow … if she could warn Basso to bring his rowboat—

Garrett squelched the flicker of hope before it could take root. There’d be no-one to rescue him. It was years since a starving street urchin had found shelter at the court of the Queen of Beggars and whilst she might notice the sudden end to his donations, he wasn't such a fool as to expect her to risk her beggars on his behalf. And Basso? Basso would miss his main source of income, but he’d find another thief to replace Garrett soon enough. No. The only person he could rely on was himself.

A plate clattered onto the table in front of him. Startled, Garrett looked up to find Douglas stood beside him holding out an enamelled tin mug. Garrett took it, sniffing warily at the contents. Water, so far as he could tell. He couldn’t smell any lurking poppy. His plate held a rough-torn piece of bread, still steaming from the oven. Garrett looked over at the plate belonging to the man in the white jacket—his bread had been thickly slathered with butter. There wasn’t any butter set out on the table. Nor could he see any knives to spread it with, come to think of it.

“Not today, lad. ‘Tis the first solid food you’ve had since you got here. You need to take it slow.”

Douglas headed over to a table pushed against one wall, where a handful of similarly dressed attendants sat talking to one another. Nurse Aubermill stood over a sheaf of paper files spread across one end, patting down her pockets with increasing confusion. Garrett ducked his head to hide the smirk.

“I have to say I expected someone … taller.”

Garrett blinked, caught off guard. A thin, sandy-haired man a little older than himself had climbed over the end of the bench next to him. Watery blue eyes studied him intently.

“For an assassin. I expected someone more imposing. More of a presence, if you see what I mean.”

Had everyone here heard already?

“No matter, no matter. Only takes a tiny pebble for a landslide.” The man offered him a crooked grin and tapped his knuckles against the table.

If this were anywhere else Garrett would have wondered if the man had taken leave of his senses. Given where they were, he was certain of it.

“Ah, forgive me! Where are my manners? Twenty-nine, at your service.” The man glanced toward the staff table before leaning close, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Vincenzo Montonessi.”

Garrett nodded. He looked away, unsure how to respond. So far no-one had used his name in his hearing and it seemed increasingly likely that no-one here knew who he was. That was to his advantage, if so. The fewer traces he left behind him when he escaped, the better.

“Thirty-one.” The number felt strange in his mouth. Alien, tasting uncomfortably of surrender.

“You must tell me all the details. I will paint such a masterpiece. I can see it now!” Montonessi began gesticulating excitedly, his hands making sharp, darting motions that reminded Garrett of the way flocks of sparrows squabbled over scraps. “A backdrop of oppressive shadows draws the eye to the firelight reflected on your blade, the guards’ helmets gleaming as they burst into the room—”

“I didn't—”

“But why? That, my friend, is the crucial question. The why is as important as the what. More, even. The drums of revolution, perhaps. Yes! The dark age ascendant over the golden.”

Montonessi leaned toward Garrett, peering closely at him. Garrett stared down into the mug in his hand, hoping that if he ignored him for long enough the man would grow bored and leave him alone. His fingers tightened around the mug as it blurred and doubled.

“Did it hurt when they trapped the moonlight in your eye?”

“What?”

An outstretched finger lightly tapped the skin below his eye, traced the lacerations down his cheek. Garrett jerked his head away, his gaze darting over to the elevator then to each door in turn. Without help there’d be no escape that way. Even if he could reach the wheels to move the chair by himself, he wouldn’t get far one-handed.

“Not why … who.” Bony fingers clamped down on his wrist. “Who is that?”

_Terrified eyes locked with his own as she writhed, suspended above the blinding glare._ Garrett screwed his eyes shut. He didn’t want to think about Erin. Couldn’t think about her. His fault. He wrenched his arm free, barely noticing as water slopped out of his mug to spill down his shirt.

“Thieving guttershite!”

Garrett flinched, his head snapping up. Plates jolted as the man in the white jacket slammed his fist on the table. He grabbed his neighbour’s shirt and shoved him backwards off the bench.

Benches toppled with a crash as the patients around the table scrambled to get away. Garrett dropped his mug and scrabbled at the strap trapping him in the chair. His fingers groped desperately behind him for the buckle. Out of his reach. The beggar at the far end of the table was huddled on the floor clutching at his head. His high-pitched wail drowned out the frantic scuffle and the smack of fist against flesh.

“Fifty-three, back off!”

Boots pounded across the tiles toward them. Two attendants dove in to force the pair apart. Fifty-three screamed obscenities as they seized his arms and dragged him backwards to the floor in a heaving tangle of limbs. Kicking and flailing, he soon exhausted himself against their combined weight. He lay on his back, his chest heaving with sobbing gasps.

“Taffing nut.” Fifty-three’s victim grabbed hold of the table edge to pull himself up, brushing dust and crumbs off his clothes. He stalked away to sit at another table, muttering darkly and glowering at the room in general.

Garrett pressed a hand to his temple as his head throbbed. He sucked in a breath, wincing at the flare of pain in his ribs. The air itself wavered around him, sound and colour falling away into the distance. For the space of a heartbeat the walls and ceiling almost seemed to ripple as if seen from underwater. A white light flashed in his eyes and was gone again before he could be sure it was even there.

He blinked and rubbed at his eyes before looking around warily. Everything seemed normal, if still blurred in his right eye. Fifty-three struggled between the attendants as they pulled him to his feet. The sleeves of the straitjacket had been buckled securely behind his back to trap his arms across his chest. He spat threats and curses at the attendants as they dragged him between the tables toward the revolving doors in the far corner of the hall.

Douglas knelt beside the beggar who still huddled shaking on the floor at the other end of the table. He murmured something to him, too quiet for Garrett to catch the words. He glanced up at Garrett, nodding once before returning his attention to the beggar. The panicked wailing died by slow degrees, eventually subsiding into muffled whimpers. Garrett looked around for Montonessi, eventually spotting him at one of the tables nearby with his arm around a much younger man—barely more than a boy—who sat slumped against him.

Glancing around to make sure no-one was watching him Garrett reached over to drag Fifty-three’s plate toward himself. It didn’t look like the man would be back any time soon. It’d be a shame to let his butter go to waste.

 

****

 

_6 30 NRy841: Joined the other patients in the Dining Hall. Anxious and withdrawn, but coped well with the disturbance caused by #53. No signs of violence. Attendant Barrie reports that he is rubbing at his eyes frequently and showing symptoms of light sensitivity and head pain: recommend further investigation. ~ Nurse Aubermill_


	6. Chapter 6

The lift groaned and juddered as it descended toward the basement. Garrett shifted uneasily in the wheelchair, fighting the urge to struggle against the leather straps around each wrist. After a week of relative freedom upstairs on the ward, being restrained again was a vice about his chest that made it hard to breathe.

He’d known something was wrong when the bustle of the patients heading to breakfast had faded and there’d been no sign of Douglas to help him into the chair and take him downstairs. Instead he’d watched dust motes drifting through the shaft of sunlight that meandered across his room. Every few minutes the silence was broken by Fifty-three’s muffled raging from Central Seclusion across the corridor. Ordinarily he’d be glad to be left in peace, but he’d quickly learned that changes to the ward’s unvarying routine were a sign something bad was coming.

The air around him had seemed to shimmer, like a heat haze over the rooftops at the height of summer. He’d brushed the notion aside—the day wasn’t anywhere near warm enough for that. It had to be just a trick of the light, or some lingering effect from the damage to his eye. The burning had mostly faded now and if he concentrated he could force away most of the blurriness, though the near-constant headache showed no signs of abating.

Neither Carl nor Jacob had spoken a word since leaving his room. Not that he’d expect either of them to acknowledge him, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something had happened. Careful to avoid looking at them he kept his head down, painfully aware of the glares burning into the back of his head.

The quilted sack coat they’d given him was warm and despite the cold draught whistling through the elevator stairwell he was already sweating. Shapeless and several sizes too large for him, its sleeves had all but hidden his palms and now lay bunched up against the straps trapping his hands against the armrests. The collar rode uncomfortably high, rubbing against his neck every time he moved.

Garrett looked up as the lift shuddered to a halt. The harsh brightness from the electric light on the landing triggered a stab of pain behind his eyes. He ducked his head to avoid the glare, blinking rapidly as he tried to dispel the afterimages floating in his vision.

Lights flickered above the industrial-looking metal doors lining the left-hand wall of the Treatment Centre, casting alternate pools of light and shadow along the corridor. Garrett squinted at the ominous nameplates of each as they passed. He could hazard a guess as to what hydrotherapy might involve, but what the bells was electrotherapy?

Huxley was waiting for them beyond a barred gate at the end of the corridor. Carl passed her a file that she flicked through, scanning the last few pages. While they waited Garrett peered up at the faded sign above the closed steel door: 3G-Sensory Deprivation Chamber. He swallowed, sweat beading at the back of his neck to trickle down his spine. Ever since he woke in this accursed place they’d blinded him one way or another—hadn’t they done enough already?

“And this is?”

“You’re the one holding the notes.” Jacob headed over to the storage unit leaning drunkenly against the wall. He pulled a crate down from the top shelf and began rummaging through it.

“You could at least pretend to take this seriously.” Huxley glared at him. “You know I have to ask.”

“Thirty-one.”

Disappearing into the small office beside the gate Huxley dropped the file on top of a stack of papers. She scribbled something into a ledger that sat open on the desk. “Doctor Huntfield needs me in 3B; I’m running behind. Are you okay finishing up?”

Carl shrugged from where he slouched in the overstuffed chair just outside the door, rolling something between his palms. “I’m already stuck here babysitting till shift end.”

She nodded, brushing away invisible wrinkles from her uniform. “Keep close watch on Seventy-eight. She’s not scheduled to finish until late tonight, but she’s already near collapse. You might need to pull her out early.”

“If you say so.”

Huxley patted Garrett’s shoulder as she turned away. “You won’t be alone. There’ll be someone sat out here at all times. Relax, and let it happen.”

Garrett twisted round to stare after her as she pulled the gate closed behind her and hurried away down the corridor. Let what happen? What was she talking about?

A shadow fell over him as Carl levered himself to his feet. Jacob returned carrying several rolls of bandages that he dropped in Garrett’s lap. Thick fingers took hold of his jaw, forced their way into his mouth. Garrett’s throat seized and he recoiled. Bit down.

“Filthy jacknall!” The blow snapped his head sideways.

Garrett clenched his teeth together, something hot and sharp splintering in his chest. To hell with cooperating. It’d make no difference if he fought them or not—they’d hurt him anyway. But he just couldn’t sit here and let them do … do whatever this was. He just couldn’t. He raised his head, meeting Jacob’s furious glare with one of his own.

Carl’s forearm clamped across his throat, jerking him backward. His shoulderblades thumped against the backrest and he hissed as pain flared in his ribs and shoulder. Jacob’s thumb and forefinger pinched his nostrils shut. Garrett tried to shake them off but the hand in his hair forced his head back and held him.

“You’re going to regret that, Thirty-one.” Jacob smiled.

Garrett stared up at him, refusing to look away. His chest heaved as he fought to suck in air through his teeth. He couldn’t breathe. Lashing out with his foot missed by inches as Jacob simply stepped to the side out of his reach. The straps cut into his wrists as he yanked against them, desperate to push Jacob away, to fight back, to do _something_.

“You’re already more trouble than you’re worth." Jacob leaned down over him, his mouth close to Garrett’s ear. “Cost us a day’s wage, you did, with that little stunt of yours.”

His lungs were burning. A grey tinge crept across Jacob’s sneer, the thin trickle of air nowhere near enough to stem the rising dread or dampen the rushing in his ears. Shadows pressed at the edges of his vision.

Desperation won out. Garrett snatched at a breath. It was all the opening Jacob needed. The vice-like grip tightened. Bruising fingers forced his mouth open until he feared his jaw would break. As soon as they released him Garrett gagged and spat, trying to dislodge the thick roll of gauze wedged behind his teeth. Jacob wound a second roll over the first to hold it firmly in place. He jerked the knot tight behind Garrett’s head.

Dark spots floated in front of him. Too focused on breathing, he couldn’t make himself react to the sharp pull on his hair that tilted his head to one side. Someone spoke but he couldn’t follow, the words echoing over and through one another from somewhere impossibly distant. The faint sweet scent of beeswax reached him as something warm and pliable eased its way into his ear. He looked up, his vision swimming. Jacob pressed his thumb into the wax, smearing it sideways into an airtight seal. More wax was pushed into his other ear and all sound abruptly faded, replaced by an uncomfortable sensation of fullness inside his head.

Jacob reached for the final roll and Garrett closed his eyes, letting his head hang. The flush of anger drained away, leaving him hollow and numb. He couldn’t stop them. Even whole and with his hands free he couldn’t have fought them off. It was one of the earliest lessons he’d learned at the orphanage: don’t get caught. Once they had hold of him it was over. His only chance lay in never letting anyone get close enough to catch him. He couldn’t hold back the flinch as Jacob wound the blindfold securely over his eyes and knotted it. Darkness pressed in on him—not the comforting shadows that offered shelter and protection, but something altogether more solid and more threatening.

The wheelchair spun around and jerked forward without warning, throwing him sideways against the armrest. The straps pulled free. Garrett recoiled as a large hand clamped around his upper arm and dragged him to his feet. The cast scraped against the floor, pain shooting up his leg as he stumbled. The grip on his arm yanked him upright, swung him around and shoved him backward. He tripped and fell, the back of his head colliding with something that sent points of light spiralling around him. Unyielding wood thudded against his spine as he crashed into the chair. He bit down on the gauze to stifle the yelp.

Hot breath spilled over his face and neck as someone leant over him. Garrett flailed and kicked. Dark satisfaction washed through him as his heel struck something solid. He made no effort to hide the smirk, the sharp sting of the gag pinching at healing lacerations a small price to pay.

Rough hands caught his wrists and he let himself go limp, offering no resistance as they secured his hands and feet.

A sudden vibration through the backrest startled him. Reflex jerked his head up to search for its source, only to realise the futility of the gesture. Garrett choked as a hand closed around his throat. Shoved him backward until his head smacked against a wooden post fixed upright behind the chair. The vibration grew stronger and he flinched as something soft settled at his temples. He tilted his head slightly to press against it, encountered firmly padded cloth. _No_. Not _again_.

He tried to shake them off, to pull his head away. The hand on his throat tightened in warning and he froze, struggling to swallow past the fingers clamped across his carotid. Fuzzy greyness swept through him as the floor slowly lilted to one side. An eternity passed before the grip loosened slightly, allowing him to gasp for breath. The padding tapered inward, pressing tighter and tighter as the—thing—was lowered over his head. His heart raced. He clenched his fists, trying to suppress the shaking. A belt tightened across his chest, forcing him upright against the back of the chair.

The hand released and was gone. He tried to curl in on himself only to be brought up short by the padded vice around his head.

A breath. Two. Three … ten.

Where were they?

Garrett tensed. Had they left? He waited, straining his ears for any hint of movement. Nothing. Airless silence surrounded him, broken only by the rapid thudding of his own heartbeat. His skin crawled with anticipation. Carl and Jacob might be stood right next to him and he had no means of knowing. Even without the barrier of the wadded cloth, he suspected the wax blocking his ears could have muffled even Basso’s thunderous snoring. He might have to suggest it the next time Basso browbeat him into staying at his apartment after a Watchman aimed his crossbow a little too well.

He flexed his hands but there was no give in the rough-worn leather. Not that he’d expected any. Twisting sideways until his ribs creaked in protest he still couldn’t find enough leverage to pull his head free. The far end of the wooden armrest dug into his wrist as his fingers groped in midair, searching for something—anything—to grab hold of.

No-one touched him. Sound and sight stolen, nothing but empty air within his grasp. He couldn’t even _move_. Taking as deep a breath as his ribs would allow, he let it out slowly and steadily, willing himself to remain calm. Sensory deprivation, the doorplate had said. This more than qualified. He counted out his heartbeats, the tension in his muscles gradually dissipating. Neither darkness nor silence were strangers to him. If this was the worst of it, he could endure.

The thought of Carl standing watch outside whilst he was trapped like this—helpless—left a sour lump in the back of his throat. Carl could … he could do anything if he chose, and no-one would stop him. No-one would even notice.

_You_ _’re going to regret that, Thirty-one_.

He wouldn’t. Would he?

Garrett bit down on the gauze in his mouth, trying to relieve the growing ache. If Huxley’s warning about Seventy-eight were accurate, he wasn’t alone. At least one patient was here, maybe more. Unknown others, imprisoned silent in the dark beside him. He shuddered, flexing his fingers to reassure himself that he still could, that he still retained some small measure of control.

Late tonight … With only the slow sweep of the sun to guide him judging time was tricky at best, but it couldn’t have been much past midday when they came for him. A chill trickled down his spine. If Seventy-eight wasn’t to be released until late tonight, then Garrett—

He shoved the thought away. It didn’t matter. However long they intended to keep him trapped, they wouldn’t forget him … wouldn’t leave him to die here. They would release him eventually. Placing his trust in strangers—strangers who already hated him, at that—went against every rule he relied on to keep him safe. But he had no choice. There was nothing he could do to free himself. He just had to be patient. He knew how to be patient.

Numbing cold crept through him, seeping into bare feet from the unswept tiles. The quilted sack coat shielded him from the worst of the draught gently curling through the air. He pulled at the restraints, wishing he could bury himself deeper into its warmth as the aching chill grew in his exposed hands. Clenching and releasing his fists helped him cling to sensation as long as possible, but only postponed the inevitable. Eventually he was forced to abandon the attempt, no longer able to know for certain whether his fingers still responded.

Somewhere beyond several thousand Garrett lost count of how many heartbeats. Refusing to acknowledge the anxious flutter creeping through him, he concentrated on just listening to the visceral sounds of his own body. Magnified over and over, the gentle sigh of his breath entering and leaving his lungs and the slow swish of blood through his ears became almost deafeningly loud against the stark silence. He tried to convince himself that the pulsing of his own heart was instead the ponderous ticking from the clock tower. He’d passed many restless hours letting the steady cadence from the massive clock soak through him, lulled by the reassuring familiarity of its rhythm.

Faint points of light resolved out of the darkness, fading in and out as he watched. Stars, glimpsed through the drifting layers of smoke and cloud shrouding the City. The sense of floating, of falling. Tumbling forward into the abyss. No, it wasn’t he who fell but the stars, spinning around and toward him in slow arcs. He tried to focus on the stars, to follow them, but each time they slid out of his reach, expanding and growing brighter as they eased past him and were gone. Unknown constellations merged into one another as the softly glowing threads connecting the stars traced a hypnotic and shifting pattern across the dark.

 

****

 

_7 7 NRy841: Moved to Treatment Centre, Room 3G, for sensory deprivation therapy: 72 hours. ~ Nurse Huxley_

_7 7 NRy841: No untoward symptoms. ~ Attendant Whitby_


	7. Chapter 7

Leaden fatigue pooled in aching joints though sleep evaded him, evaporating like mist in the wake of his growing thirst. Creeping pangs all too familiar slowly deepened. He swallowed, savouring the brief respite from the deep-seated ache in his jaw even as bone-dry gauze scratched at his parched and swollen tongue. Tight bands of pressure throbbed in his temples. Every breath brought with it a sharp flare of pain in his ribs, answered by the dull but growing heat in his leg.

The starlit expanse had faded to an inky void, but how long ago he couldn’t say. Hours. Days. Forever? Traces of blue-green gently pulsed and twisted upon themselves, shimmering ribbons floating in air no longer anchored by the shifting stars. Abstract patterns formed and disintegrated before him, gradually billowing into recognisable forms. The intermeshing teeth of rotating clock gears, and square-cut rubies strung on silver chains. Unflinching, glittering eyes and the elegant sweep of feathered plumage. Jenivere took flight, iridescent wings beating once, twice, before dissolving into curls of smoke. Erin’s claw, sharp metal teeth biting into wood and stone and unprotected flesh.

And Erin herself, blue eyes alight with insolence and arrogance, and so very alive that his breath caught in his throat.

A hollow ache blossomed in his chest. He didn’t want to think about Erin. He couldn’t think about her. Not now. She’d been his apprentice, once, but no more. He wasn’t responsible for her any longer; she’d made her own choice. Reaped the consequences. He shied away from the thought, wishing he could turn away, close his eyes. Anything to avoid the memory of clutching at empty air as she plummeted toward the light. Of how she’d pleaded for her claw, how he’d let her fall. Failed her. He swallowed again, trying to force down the cold knot lodged in his throat. Choking him.

“People die all the time. Better a quick death than a slow one.”

He jerked, startled. That had been Erin’s voice. That furious whispered exchange, years before, had haunted him. It had been the first time she’d openly challenged his guidance. The night they parted ways he’d lain awake wondering if … if he’d only found the right words back then, would it have made a difference? _Had_ there been any right words that could have averted what came later?

He gradually became aware of faint voices drifting from somewhere ahead. They grew slowly louder, though no more distinct. Someone was weeping, soft and broken, locked away behind iron bars and diamond-paned glass. Quiet despair, unspoken and unacknowledged. Rushing whispers went hidden behind hands, furtive conversations buried in sly glances. Uneasy murmuring fell into silence with the passing of brisk footsteps.

High-pitched, shrill laughter hung in the distance. A child’s laugh. Here? Why—how—was a child here?

Briefly he wondered where _here_ was.

Shrieks of rage and fury, shot through by sharp hysteria. The scuffle and scrape of nailed boots and the thud of falling bodies. Fingernails scrabbled against the flagstones as terrified whimpers echoed off the high ceiling. Incoherent screaming rang in his ears, tearing through him, leaving him breathless.

The air rippled. Blue surged to white, then flickered to nothing.

 

****

 

A blue glow crept across his awareness, so gradually that he was unable to pinpoint just when the darkness surrounding him began to lift. Growing steadily brighter it swallowed up the patterns shifting around him until he could no longer distinguish individual threads against the blinding haze.

The air rippled. Blue surged to white, then flickered to nothing.

Weak slivers of yellow lamplight bled through the darkness. A spider’s web of cracks marred the ageing plaster overhead, catching in the blue-green mist he could feel drifting through the air.

He wondered when—how—he’d returned to his room. Had they carried him back as he slept? He didn’t feel as if he’d slept. Dull languor had taken residence deep in his bones, weariness rolling over him in slow waves. The vice around his ribs was crushing him, the sickly pounding in his head keeping rhythm with the twisting in his stomach. Dry lips cracked and bled into the gauze, the pain in his jaw so constant now he scarcely felt it.

The light was wrong.

The thought tumbled in his head, confusing him until he realised no shaft of light fell across the bed. There was no window; the wall behind him was blank. No, not blank. Not entirely. Pasted to the wall above his head were paper sheets, their edges already yellowed and curling.

The room tilted sideways. He tried to close his eyes against the motion, only to realise that he couldn’t. They were already closed. Aching. Something pressed against them, a firm band circling his head. And yet the dim light revealed the row of faded red tiles, the silver tray resting on the trolley by the door. The woman seated in the corner, watching him.

A fluttering jolt in his chest. He jerked. Straps held him to the chair, keeping him from falling.

The woman set her book aside and rose to her feet with a sigh. Mist curled, disturbed by her passing as she walked over to the door and opened it a crack.

“She’s awake.”

She?

A voice outside answered, too indistinct to catch the words. Footsteps echoed away down the corridor. The woman stepped closer to him, reaching out as if she meant to take his hand. He recoiled. Pain flickered through stiffened muscles as rough-worn leather pinioned his wrist, forcing it flat to the armrest.

That couldn’t be right. This wasn’t his room, this wasn’t his bed, but it was a bed. So why did he—

Lamplight spilled across the floor as the door opened. He recognised the figure silhouetted in the doorway. Someone whimpered. He didn’t think it was him. It didn’t sound like him. Nurse Aubermill swept toward the bed, something cradled in her fingers. Something that glinted hard and sharp.

Leather creaked and groaned. His heart raced as whimpers rose to wails. Dissolved into panicked shrieks that sliced through him to jangle inside of his skull. _Glass shattered and fell away in glittering shards. Blue light boiled and writhed below as her feet kicked at the empty air. Her thin, desperate scream rang in his ears._

No! Erin was dead—he’d seen her fall, seen her swallowed up by the light. Seen her lying crumpled amid the rubble of the ceremony room. Erin wasn’t here. She couldn’t be here. This wasn’t happening—it wasn’t. He had to be dreaming. Just another hallucination, like everything else he’d seen since … since _here_.

Where was here?

The air rippled. Blue surged to white, then flickered to nothing.

 

 

 

White lace.

“If she transfers downstairs, I will decide how best to treat her.”

White lace, uneven and inexpertly made, tacked with fraying stitches to the sleeves and skirts of the nightdress. Thin, pale arms lay draped over the armrests to either side of him, a splinted bandage encasing the left wrist. It didn’t hurt. Should it be hurting? He didn’t think they’d drugged him again. The dull heat burrowing into his leg and shoulder was too raw, too insistent. Every breath hitched on the stabbing pain in his ribs.

“For accommodation only. Eighteen is my patient and she will remain so.”

He knew those hands, those slender curving fingers. Almost as well as he knew his own. Mottled, yellowing bruises stained the backs. Traces of black polish still clung to her cuticles, the rest having flaked away.

Erin.

“Reformation is mine.”

“It’s not your decision.” Stedmann’s voice was cold, her words clipped and carefully measured.

Shadows moved beyond the edge of his vision and he tried to raise his head to get a better look. No response. The nightdress and the wheelchair and the hands—Erin’s hands—remained unmoving. The vice about his ribs tightened. This wasn’t right. Nothing about this was right. Why did he see Erin’s hands and not his own? Was he dreaming?

“Writing yet another complaint to the Baron, are we, Eliza?” Huntfield’s pen tapped a staccato rhythm against the cover of the file.

“This is neither the time nor the place.”

The shadows at the doorway melted away. Pale yellow lamplight pooled across the tiles at his feet.

The air rippled. Blue surged to white, then flickered to nothing.

 

 

 

Bars of light slanted across the uneven stone floor. No tiles here, only rough-cut stone blocks bolted together at intervals by rusted brackets. Screams and moans echoed somewhere beyond the thick iron door.

The room was empty, but he couldn’t shake the certainty that he wasn’t alone. He wanted to look around, to reassure himself no-one lurked nearby, but no amount of wishing or straining produced the slightest movement. Huddled against the iron bedframe, in the darkest corner farthest from the door, a hand—Erin’s hand—clutched at the draped blanket. Pale fingers clenched so tight they were visibly shaking.

 _I get it. You're not in control._ His own words to Erin drifted through his awareness. He hadn’t meant to anger her. Only to warn her, to show her that she could still become a master thief, but only if she could keep control of herself. Think, before acting. Even as he spoke he’d known they were the wrong words, but it was already too late. Years too late, even.

He wasn’t in control. But if not him, then who?

_Erin?_

The room jolted, his stomach lurching. His vision flickered up and sideways to the door, to each corner of the room, into every shadow. Back to the stained mattress.

“Garrett?” It was Erin's voice, but small—broken, betraying a tremor he never thought he’d hear. Not from her. Not Erin.

A fleeting glimpse of her palm, and then the light winked out.

“No. Please, no. Not you too.”

A shiver ran through him. This had to be another dream. But it didn’t feel like a dream, not any more. Erin didn’t … he’d never thought he’d see Erin like this, hadn’t thought that anything could affect her like this.

Quiet, shuddering breaths floated in the darkness. “I saw you—I saw … you. The blood … you died.”

He knew he lived. It was the one thing he knew for certain about the accident. He’d survived the fall and the roof collapse, only to wake as a prisoner. Of all the things he might long, or fear, to hear from Erin’s ghost, this was not among them. A warm spark of—something—flickered. He wasn’t … she hadn’t … Erin was—

 _Erin._ He hadn’t spoken; he couldn’t speak. He wasn’t in control.

“Why are you even here? It’s not as if you wanted anything to do with me.”

She’d preferred it that way. Hadn’t she? The night they’d parted Erin insisted he had nothing left to teach her. She didn’t need him any more—she’d already taken all she wanted from him. It was better that way, for them both. She didn’t need him any more, and he couldn’t work with her any longer. He couldn’t be responsible for her. Not when he couldn’t trust her to keep control of herself. Out of control, Erin was dangerous. Lives were cheap to her, holding little weight or meaning—anyone who got in her way was expendable. He was a thief, and only a thief. He couldn’t work with an assassin or a butcher. She’d known that. Hadn’t she?

Erin opened her eyes to stare at the mattress in front of her. Bitterness crept into her voice. “Come to tell me how badly I fucked up? Can’t resist lecturing me one last time?”

_What good would it do? You never listened before._

“Well I’m not the one who fucked up this time, Garrett! You’re the one who got scared and tried to back out. You’re the one who threw the claw on the skylight. You’re the one who—”

A strangled noise escaped her as the words cracked and broke off. From anyone else he might have thought it a sob.

“—who let go.” It was barely a whisper.

It was suddenly hard to breathe past the sour thread coiling in his chest. He’d tried to save her. It hadn’t been enough.

“You took it.” Erin’s hand dropped into her lap, fingers slack. Bloodied half-moons traced a line across her palm. “Why? You didn’t even want it.”

_It was holding you back._

Metal clinked as she shifted, the blanket falling open. From the corner of his vision he caught sight of the chain links snaking away from beneath the hem of her nightdress and spilling off the mattress onto the floor. Tracing them back he spotted the farthest link, bolted to the wall next to the bed.

“You just didn’t want me to have it. You didn’t like that I’d made something you hadn’t thought of already.”

 _No._ His heart faltered, jerking against his ribs as the thread snapped tight. _Erin, that_ _’s not—_

She let out a quiet laugh, sharp-edged and ugly. “You always did hate not being able to control everything. Big brother knows best.”

_Erin—_

“What do you care now? You’re dead.”

_Erin, no. I’m—_

“What did you ever care?” Darker blotches flowered over the white cotton as something dripped onto her nightdress. “You’re dead, and I’m …”

 _I thought you died in the accident, but you survived. We both did._ Could she even hear him? She was clearly aware of him, but she hadn’t responded to anything he’d … he’d—what? He couldn’t speak. Had he said anything at all?

“Why am I alone, Garrett? Don’t leave me alone.”

An unfamiliar heavy pain twisted in his chest, pressing down on him. His lungs burned as he fought to breathe through the tightness in his throat.

_Erin, I’m alive … I’m here._

 

****

 

_7 8 NRy841: No untoward symptoms. ~ Attendant Stebbins_

_7 9 NRy841: No untoward symptoms. ~ Attendant Henning_


	8. Chapter 8

Water dripped from the high stone ceiling beyond the iron door, more akin to rainwater dripping through the crumbling arches of the old chapel crypt than the close confines of any prison he’d known. Almost deafening in the near-silence, the echoing splashes were a painful reminder of wracking thirst that left him shivery and weak. The dank air grew thin and stale, searing against his parched throat, each shallow breath expelled almost immediately in desperation for the next.

The screams had died away, though how long ago he didn’t know. He’d lost track as seconds bled into minutes bled into hours. Into days? The emptiness gnawing at his middle suggested as much, though he couldn’t remember when or how it had laid its teeth into him.

Erin still sat huddled in the corner with the blanket wrapped around her, the mattress before her all he could see as she stared wordlessly down at her hands. In any other circumstance he would leave her alone, give her time and privacy to brood without a witness. He didn’t understand why she’d begged him to stay. There wasn’t even anything he could do. He didn’t want to see her like this; he wouldn’t want to be seen like this. But he couldn’t leave her. Couldn’t leave her _here_.

Where was here?

He couldn’t leave even if he had wanted to. Trying to remember how he’d gotten here yielded nothing but fog. Had he been somewhere? Silence … darkness. Stars. It didn’t matter; he wasn’t in control.

A faint sound reached him, right on the edge of hearing. A juddering near his head, more felt than heard. Wood rubbing against wood. Chill draughts touching upon sweat-damp hair. The uneasy sensation of everything tilting, of stiff muscles along his neck spasming as his too-heavy head dropped. But Erin hadn’t moved—nothing had moved.

“Why are you here, Garrett?” The rasp in her voice sounded almost as weary as he felt.

Even if he could speak, there was nothing to say. He didn’t understand how he was here at all. Nothing about this seemed possible, and yet it felt all too real. He wasn’t dreaming.

Tugging, first at one wrist and then the other.

“What do you want?”

For her to hear him, have her know he’d survived. To get himself out. To get them both out. In the place he’d—she’d—woken before, there’d been tiled walls like those of his own room. Was Erin also imprisoned in Moira? But there was nothing familiar about this prison cell. For all its austerity and the bars on the windows, the draughty halls keeping him captive were still recognisably a ward of sorts. Nothing in this bare room spoke of healing.

Erin huffed, a trace of sarcasm seeping into her tone. “Red Jenny's after you so you come haunt me thinking I can help?”

_That wouldn_ _’t help._ Like as not Red Jenny followed Erin around like a hopeful carrion crow. She left more than enough death in her wake.

Something loosened around his chest. Vertigo rolled over him as he felt himself slump and fall forward. Hands caught him. Lifted him.

“If you’re here to lecture me then get on with it. It’s not like you to hold back.”

Even as his apprentice she’d barely listened. Instead Erin followed a pace behind, watching him with eyes that missed nothing and echoing each movement. He’d shown her stealth and silence, to dodge and distract, to slink from cover to cover and flow unseen through shadow. At first trailing him, later racing at his side. Pride flickered when eventually she surpassed him, flying over the thieves’ highway as if born to it. Few words were needed and it served them both. At first. But imitation wasn’t enough. Some skills couldn’t be shown. How to see the hidden tumblers through the faintest twitch of a lock pick. How to strike to disable, but not to kill. Not just how to move, but _when_ and _why_. Silent mimicry taught her the skills of a thief, but not the artistry.

So he’d resorted to words, teaching judgement rather than skill. The more skilled she grew, the more words were needed. Erin was skilled—talented, even—but not yet a master. But his words never came easily and they were never the right words. He reached for explanation but all she heard was lecture, criticism instead of encouragement. Her resentment simmered, bubbling up through demands for him to praise her, recognise her skill. Respect her as a thief his equal. But Erin wasn’t ready. She was swift and agile, quick to react and to adapt. But not a master. Not yet.

He’d give her that lecture if he could, knowing full well she’d dismiss it the way she dismissed all his others. Resentment would be better than this. Even anger would be better than this. Anything to banish the numb weariness in her voice.

“Whatever you’re here for, just … just say it. I’ll listen, I promise. Just don’t leave.”

_Erin_ … Was he doing something wrong?

_Snick._ Prying fingers, grit and sweat salty on his tongue. Scratching, choking … pulling free. A dull aching in his jaw.

Fumbling at his ears. A wave of sound washing through him. The rumble of a generator, shuffle of boots over flagstones, scratch of pen against paper. A clockwork heartbeat buried within the walls.

_Snick._ A red haze overlying his vision, slowly brightening as Erin’s hands wavered and faded. The air rippled. Blue surged to—

No. She’d begged him to stay. He wasn’t letting her fall again.

“The voices … I can’t block them out. They … they won’t stop. It hurts, Garrett. They hurt. They all hurt.”

_Voices?_ Erin still hadn’t looked up, but the bars of light splayed across the floor were unbroken. No-one stood outside. They were alone.

“Dammit, Clyde. You should have called me sooner.” A warm hand tipped his head back. “He looks bad.”

The voice floated in the air close by. Close enough to reach out and touch. Young. A fleeting image of warm, topaz brown eyes, neatly pressed white cap pinned into tight-curled dark brown hair. Clipped river pearls, and sleeves rolled back to the elbow. But there was no-one here. Other than Erin, the cell was empty. Another hallucination, then—nothing more than a dream. Unreal. It didn’t matter. He was so tired of dreaming. He was so tired.

“My shift just started. Jacob never said nothing before he left. Thirty-one’s the only patient due to finish today.”

A rustle of paper. “Hours ago. Shit. Just … take him back up. Let them worry about it. I need to check the others.”

Movement. Slow brush of air against his face and the humming of wooden wheels. Sullen muttering from above and behind.

Were they Erin’s voices? There had been others, before. Unseen and unheard, but he’d felt their presence. Later on they had faded, swallowed up by the stars. He wasn’t sure how long ago. Far-off echoes of dripping water nearly masked the tramp of feet against flagstones. Slow and regular, drawing nearer only to retreat again. Patrolling. The rhythm seemed almost familiar. He knew that tread. Candlelit flicker through the fanlight above his door.

“You’re late.” Sharp … clipped. Starch and scrubbing brushes. Don’t wake the little ones. “He should have been back this morning at the latest.”

“It’s not my fault. I only—”

“I’m not interested in excuses. Take him to his room … M12. I’ll send someone in.”

Bars on the door, rough-cut stone walls … this cell wasn’t his room. It wasn’t Erin’s either. She didn’t belong here any more than he did. Maybe she dreamed as well—dreams of voices. Perhaps of the same voices, muffled by locked doors, growing louder as wooden wheels jolted over the gaps between the flagstones. Pacing … muttering … unsettled murmurs as clock hands crept toward the moment the lights would fizzle out, leaving nothing but pale moonlight gleaming through barred windows. That wasn’t right. Iron bars multiplied in the sickly lamplight beyond the door, but the cell held no windows. Not this deep. Not the ruins of the old chapel crypt, but something close. He couldn’t remember where—did he even know? Distant splashes of water. Dripping water—cold and fresh, and sweet relief from creeping thirst. Dry gasps scraping at his lungs.

“There’s too many of them, I can’t … focus on any of them … I can’t— They keep drowning each other out.”

_They_ _’ll sleep eventually—they sedate the ones who won’t. Be patient._ May as well order her to sprout wings. Patience never came naturally.

Hands, again. A moment of weightlessness as the world rolled around him. Heat flaring from leg and shoulder, and something soft beneath him. Weight settling over his chest. Warmth. A hundred tiny gritty shards lodged in his limbs from muscles long since chilled stiff.

“What happened, Clyde?” The deep lilting burr wrapped around him. Familiar—somehow safe, despite the bite of anger. “You’re supposed to be discharging him before he collapses. Not half dead!”

“Look, I … I don’t know. I just came on shift. Jacob was on this morning, but he didn’t mention nothing. You need to ask him.”

“Aye. I will be.”

Broad calloused fingers pressed lightly to his throat, a gentle touch brushing through his hair. “Just hold on, lad. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Slow and heavy footsteps retreated, leaving only muffled wailing through the walls. Distant breaking of waves over shingles and the cries of seagulls. That couldn’t be right. The chapel crypt held rats aplenty, but never seagulls. No. The cell, not the crypt.

_Where are you, Garrett?_ Erin’s voice was fading.

He had no answer. _Here_ , yes, but where? He couldn’t remember. Not his room, and not the chapel crypt. The bars of light across the floor quivered, the air tingeing blue, rippling like water. Stone walls crumbled to sand. Feeble lamplight flickered and died. Not even the cell, then. Somewhere else. _Here_ was …

“Erin …” A breathy wheeze, all but inaudible. Bone-dry dust catching on his tongue. It didn’t matter where. None of it mattered. _Here_ was Erin, and he wasn’t leaving her. Not again.

Lock tumblers rattled. The swish of skirts. “There’s no doctor on duty tonight. He’ll have to wait until Doctor Stedmann arrives in the morning.”

“Just look at the wee lad—not a thing to drink since Sunday. He isnae going to make it to the morning without help.”

The mattress shifted. Fingers pressed to the inside of his wrist, a hard pinch to the back of one hand. “He’s not critical yet. He can wait. I’m not going to disturb the doctor at this time of night unless there’s an emergency.”

“He’ll be needing someone to stay with him, then. Avery’s on reserve down in Reformation tonight. He could—”

“Out of the question. If you’re so determined to coddle him, I suggest you do it yourself.”

“Aye, maybe I will.”

_So many voices_ _… thousands of them, whispering. It’s too loud, Garrett. Make them stop—just make them stop._

“I can’t stop them, Erin. They’re not real.” None of it was. He was real; he knew that much. He’d survived, and so had Erin. They didn’t belong here. “Don’t listen to them.”

“Ah, lad. It looks like it’s just you and me tonight.” Chair legs scraped across the floor. “Any time you’ll want to be waking would be grand. You need to drink something before you can sleep.”

_Garrett! Don_ _’t go. Don’t leave me! Make it stop._ Fainter. Worn through. Brittle. Ageing rope stretched thin to breaking.

Large hands gripped him. Shook him. “Stay with me, now. You can’t be sleeping just yet.”

“I can’t, Erin. I don’t know how.” None of this was real. He needed to get back to Erin. She’d begged him to stay. “Tell me what to do.”

“Erin isn’t here, lad. But I’m thinking she’d want you awake.” Shaking again—harder this time. Shades of alarm beneath the deep rumble. “Come on, now. You need to be waking. I can’t help you if you don’t wake up for me.”

_Garrett_ _…_

If Erin was a dream, he didn’t want to wake up.

 

****

 

"You're in a bit early, aren't you?" Nurse Aubermill hovered in the open doorway, a thin sheaf of paper files tucked under one arm. The candle perched on the windowsill flickered in the draught spilling in from the corridor.

"Late, actually. The lad and I have been keeping each other company. Isn't that right?"

Garrett debated glaring at Douglas, but abandoned the thought as too much effort. Just keeping track of his surroundings was challenge enough. Even curled against the headboard with the extra pillows Douglas had scrounged up, dragging his eyes open over and over was growing steadily more difficult. Everything ached. All he wanted was to lie down and sleep, but every time he drifted off, Douglas was back to shaking him, mug in hand. No matter how much Douglas coaxed him into drinking, the enamel mug never seemed to run dry. It wouldn’t be so bad if it held only water, but its contents were unpleasantly salty. Far too weak for seawater, but foul nonetheless. At first he’d struggled rather than swallow, but all knocking the mug out of Douglas’ hands had accomplished was dousing himself and the bedclothes in saltwater.

“I thought it strange when I saw the note in his file. It’s not like you to work overtime.”

“Aye, well. He needed it. Couldn’t just let him alone.”

Garrett clutched at his head with both hands. His fingers knotted in his hair as if he could push away the needling heat behind his eyes, that throbbed in time with their voices. Couldn’t they go talk elsewhere and leave him be?

“Come on, lad. Try again.” Douglas leaned toward him, holding out the mug yet again.

Garrett shook his head, gritting his teeth as the pain in his temples spiked. His stomach was roiling enough already and the last thing he needed was more saltwater, unless Douglas was particularly keen on seeing it a second time.

“You’ll be feeling better the sooner you drink it all.” Water sloshed next to Garrett’s ear as Douglas gently shook the mug. “You can manage just a wee bit, can’t you?”

Glaring suddenly felt worth the effort after all. Douglas didn’t even seem to notice, the calm, expectant look on his face not wavering even a fraction.

“What about Kenneth?”

“No doubt he’ll be having words for me tonight.” Douglas let out a slow sigh, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the edge of the bed. The mug dipped, a trickle of water spilling over the rim as it came to rest on the blanket. “But he’ll come to no harm. ‘Tis weeks since his last paroxysm.”

“That’s wonderful.” Nurse Aubermill stepped into the room, the door swinging shut behind her. She let the stack of files drop onto the foot of the mattress and braced her hands against the bedframe. “Rhubarb balsam’s doing him good, then?”

“Seems to be. The reek from Raker’s Ditch isnae helping, of course.”

Her bright laughter sliced through Garrett’s ears, crowding out everything but the vice that somehow crushed him from inside his own skull.

“That stink’s enough to steal anyone’s breath.”

“Aye. There’s nothing to be doing for it.”

Curling tighter around the pillow, Garrett rested his cheek against the bedframe and concentrated on not throwing up. The iron was cool against dry, heated skin, relief well worth enduring the scratches from old and flaking paint. He knew full well why Douglas wouldn’t let him lie down—pulling him upright, or even just lifting his head, to help him drink left him dizzy and gasping for air—but he didn’t care. His head was pounding and the buzzing in his ears wouldn’t stop and he needed Douglas to _go away_.

He needed to get back to Erin, though he wasn’t sure how. How had he even got to her in the first place? It had been real. Erin hadn’t been a dream, no matter what Douglas told him. The tiles in her room—if Erin was in Moira too then he could find her. He’d need to explore the asylum anyway to plan his own exit, and he could free her as he made his escape. But not yet. He needed to heal first, or he’d only get them both caught again. Erin just had to keep herself safe a while longer. He tried not to think about the chain bolted to the wall of her cell. All he needed was a set of lock picks. They could improvise the rest. They … they could—

“Not yet, lad.” Cramping muscles protested as something gripped his shoulder and shook him. Hard. “You can’t be sleeping ‘til after you’ve drunk it all.”

A gentle hand steadied the back of his head without lifting as Douglas tilted the mug against his lips. He swallowed automatically, and again a second time. It wasn’t until the third attempt that the taste caught up with him and he gagged on the salt. Garrett fumbled for Douglas’ hands. He might as well have tried to wrestle one of the Watch bludgeoners, but Douglas put up no resistance and allowed him to push the mug away.

“What happened, Douglas? It’s not like Irene to miss something this serious. She could have killed him.”

“Not even yon lassie can watch all them crabbit bastards. Clyde—Attendant Stebbins—was saying that Jacob Henning might have been having something to do with it. ”

“You're not suggesting—”

“I dinnae ken, Harriet. Could be. Jacob and Carl were the pair taking him downstairs when they hurt him the first time. And Jacob's the type to be holding a grudge.“

_You_ _’re going to regret that, Thirty-one._ The words floated somewhere just out of reach. Where had he heard that?

“Reporting it isn't going to help. Without proof, the most Eliza can do is get him suspended for being careless. That'd only make it worse. Shit.”

“Aye.”

Garrett dug his fingers into the pillow, praying to any god that cared to listen that the two of them would leave him alone. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold on, even with Douglas shaking him awake every time he so much as blinked for too long. Everything in the room was turning fuzzy around the edges, all the colours washing to grey and blurring together.

“Eliza’s not due in until eight. You’ve got three hours—go get yourself some kip.” Nurse Aubermill shuffled through the files on the bed. She picked out a couple and set them aside before sorting the remainder into a loose pile. “Everyone behaved themselves last night, so I hear, and Central Seclusion’s empty right now. First time all week.”

“Aye. Yesterday, too.”

“Long may it last. We could do with some peace and quiet for once.” She glanced around the room as if searching for something before darting forward to rap her knuckles over Douglas’ head.

“Harriet,” Douglas batted her hands away gently, “there’s a chair right here. And the lad?”

“He’ll be fine. I can keep an eye on him.” She flapped a file toward the door. “Go on. Shoo. I don’t want to see you again for at least an hour. I’ll come wake you before Eliza gets in.”

“He needs to be finishing that and three more beside. The heid bummer was wanting him done before the good doctor sees him, but he’ll be missing it by a mile.”

“You let me worry about that. Go sleep. Else you’ll be useless all day, and we’re shorthanded enough without you dozing off in the corner.”

“Aye.” Douglas levered himself to his feet, grunting as his spine creaked.

After Douglas had left, Nurse Aubermill dragged the vacated chair a little closer to the head of the bed where Garrett could reach it easily. She bent to retrieve something from the floor, then set the pitcher next to the mug on the seat of the chair. Garrett blinked at it dully. How long had that been there? He didn’t remember seeing Douglas refill the mug even once. He must have done, though Garrett couldn’t think when. Garrett wasn’t sure just how much saltwater Douglas had forced into him, but it felt like the man was trying to drown him. No matter how much he drank there’d been always _just a wee bit more_ left.

”I’ll be in to check on you in fifteen minutes, and I want to see this empty by the time I get back. Do you understand?”

Garrett glared at her, but nodded. He was so tired of being treated like a particularly slow child. Too tired to argue about it. It would be to his advantage later, he reminded himself. They’d eventually let their guard down if they thought him simple.

She gathered up the files and took the candle away with her, leaving him in semi-darkness. Still at least an hour before the sun crept over the horizon. He waited until the door clicked shut and the key scraped in the lock before he reached for the mug. Douglas hadn’t let him hold it himself, not after the third time he’d knocked it flying. It surprised him that Douglas hadn’t used restraints to stop him fighting back, though he was hardly going to complain. Maybe attendants weren’t allowed to, but Douglas could have easily fetched Nurse Thurlow to do it if that were the case.

Tipping the mug, he peered in to find just a dribble left in the bottom. The pitcher was still a quarter full—half a pint, maybe? It was hard to tell. For all his coaxing, Douglas had only made him swallow a small amount at a time, and even that had been bad enough. Just the thought of drinking another half pint of saltwater had his stomach churning.

If Nurse Aubermill wanted to see an empty pitcher, then he’d show her one. He just had to get rid of the contents before she returned. Trying to push himself upright, he made it only halfway before the dizziness returned full force. He sank back down and pressed his forehead into the pillow, eyes screwed shut until the whirling faded at least a little. That wasn’t going to work. He couldn’t have reached the window anyway.

Garrett dropped the mug onto the blanket before reaching to pull the pitcher toward himself. Clutching it to his chest he rolled over to face the wall. It was the work of a moment to trickle saltwater down the tiles until it was all gone. He wasn’t sure what he’d do when Nurse Aubermill returned with more, but he was too exhausted to think about that now. He shoved the empty pitcher in the general direction of the chair, only vaguely aware of the thud and clatter as mug and pitcher tumbled off the side of the bed.

Crawling further down the bed left him shaking, but the relief at finally lying down in … how long had it been? It felt like forever since he’d … since …

It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Erin was alive. He curled around the thought and let himself sink.

 

****

 

_7 10 NRy841: No untoward symptoms. ~ Attendant Henning_

_7 10 NRy841: Sensory deprivation therapy completed. Moved to Men_ _’s Ward, Room M12. ~ Nurse Huxley_

_7 10 NRy841: Patient #31 was discharged from Treatment Centre at 9:48pm: correction to previous entry - sensory deprivation therapy duration 83 hours. Exhaustion and severe dehydration: treated orally, Attendant Barrie assigned for one-to-one observations. No untoward symptoms. ~ Nurse Thurlow_

_7 10 NRy841: Attendant Barrie reports #31 is experiencing hallucinations: unclear whether visual or aural. He spoke to_ _“Erin” asking for instructions in how to stop “them” and seemed to expect an answer: unknown whether he believes “Erin” to have replied. ~ Nurse Thurlow_

_7 11 NRy841: Exhaustion and moderate dehydration: treated orally. Fifteen minute observations. ~ Nurse Aubermill_


	9. Chapter 9

“There’s not a chance in buggery that you drank the whole thing in only fifteen minutes.” Nurse Aubermill set the empty pitcher back down with a thump. “You’d have made yourself sick trying to do that.”

Garrett groaned. Tugging the blanket further up over his head he buried his face in the pillow and tried to will away the fog and the incessant headache that only seemed to be growing worse. He’d tried to dump the pitcher out a little at a time just like the others but, filled to the brim, it had been so much heavier. Too heavy, and slick with condensation. As soon as it tipped he’d lost his grip and sent a waterfall down the tiles instead of the steady trickle he’d intended. He’d fumbled to right it, but far too late. Nothing left but to return the empty pitcher to the chair and hope that Nurse Aubermill would fail to check his supposed progress. He should have known it wouldn’t work. Pretending to sleep wouldn’t work either; his head already hurt enough without her shaking him again.

“Did you spill it by mistake?” She patted the blanket and let out a puff of air between her teeth on finding it dry. Turning to the windowsill she reached for the candlestick. “What did you—”

The splash underfoot was faint but unmistakable. She crouched, pulling the edge of the blanket up to peer under the bed.

“I see.”

Nurse Aubermill let out a heavy sigh. “Thirty-one, I need you to talk to me. Can you do that?”

Garrett curled tighter under the blanket. Maybe if he ignored her for long enough she’d give up and leave him alone.

“Look at it this way. You have two options. You can either talk to me now, or I can tell Doctor Stedmann what you’ve been up to and she can talk to you instead. What would you like to do?”

The blanket bunched in his fist. He couldn’t help but notice that neither _option_ included her leaving him the hell alone. She could pester him all she liked later—no doubt she would anyway—and maybe he’d even listen. Later. After she let him sleep.

She tugged the blanket out of his hands and peeled it back. “Enough of that. I know you’re tired, but you need to stay awake. At least until Doctor Stedmann sees you.”

Garrett slowly rolled over to face her, fingers clutching for the sheet as the room lurched around him. Eyeing the empty pitcher he contemplated throwing it at her. It would only cause him more trouble. From what he’d seen over the past fortnight he didn’t think Nurse Aubermill would get angry or retaliate, but Doctor Stedmann would be certain to hear about it. If she saw anything from him hinting of violence, or if word got back to her that he wasn’t cooperating, she’d threaten him with the restraints again. He couldn’t risk that, however tempting it might be to take whatever petty revenge he could manage.

Nurse Aubermill tilted her head sideways and ducked a little to look him in the eye. “Right now you’re feeling lousy. In fact I’d go further than that. You feel like something they dragged out of a ditch. Like the fourth day of a three day hangover.”

Was there a point to this? He’d feel fine if she’d just let him sleep. As soon as the throbbing static in his head subsided and his limbs stopped cramping. He rubbed at his forehead, blinking in confusion when his hand came away dry. Too hot. There was no air in here—no wonder he felt sick—shouldn’t the window be open? Craning his head past her, he stared dully at the window. Already open. Then why—

“There’s a reason you feel like this. No, look at me. Thirty-one, look at me.” Cool fingers pressed against his cheek. He couldn’t bring himself to jerk away as she pulled his attention back. “You were downstairs too long and got too badly dehydrated. You won’t feel any better until you can drink enough to replace everything you lost.”

No. That couldn’t be right. Douglas already drowned him—the last thing he wanted was more saltwater. Garrett groped around for the blanket, wanting nothing more than to pull it over his head and block her out. He was just tired, that was all. And hot. There was no air—why wasn’t there any air?

“You didn’t drink any of the water before you threw it on the floor. Or anything at all since Douglas left you. Am I right?” She watched him for a moment, clearly expecting something. He stared back, uncertain what she wanted from him. “I’ll take that as a yes. Thirty-one, if you don’t drink something, and soon, you are only going to feel worse and worse. If you keep this up then you are going to die.”

He peered blearily up at her, searching for confirmation she was lying. She had to be.

“I’m not about to let that happen, but it’ll go a lot easier if you can stop fighting me. Let me help you.” She reached for his hand, gripping it gently between her own. It took a moment before Garrett remembered to pull away. “Talk to me. What do I have to do to help you cooperate? Are you scared of something?”

Scared? Of what? Was there something he ought to be scared of?

“It’s just water. I can drink some as well if that’ll prove to you that it’s safe. Or do you need me to wake Douglas so he can sit with you again?”

Garrett blinked at her, uncertain he’d heard correctly. What would possess her to think Douglas would make any difference? Granted, Douglas hounding him had been the only thing keeping him awake—he wasn’t sure how long it had been since … Since what? He’d been … somewhere. Erin was alive. Somewhere. He’d seen her, he was sure of it. _Why am I alone, Garrett? Don’t leave me alone._ Had he slept? He must have, else why the shaking? He’d swear his bones still rattled.

“I don’t want to force you. I’m sure you don’t want that either, but you’re not leaving me much choice here. Talk to me. I can’t help you unless you tell me what you need.”

Lock picks. Erin needed lock picks, for … for—

“Tell me why you won’t drink the water.”

“Salt.” He didn’t recognise the strangled croak. Was that really him?

“That’s the problem? It tastes bad?” Amusement. Or exasperation, he wasn’t sure which. “Doctor Stedmann will have to approve it, of course. But if losing the salt means you’ll cooperate, then we can work with that.”

Losing the … he’d lost something? Lock picks. Garrett glanced around the room. His things were missing, but he could improvise. He was good at improvising.

“I’ll speak to Doctor Stedmann as soon as she gets in. In the meantime, I’m going to fetch you some water with no salt in it, and you’re going to drink it for me.” She offered him a smile. “And no more throwing it on the floor. I don’t know about you, but I’m not fond of paddling.”

A door clicked shut nearby. Garrett ignored it. He was too tired to worry about that now. He just needed a minute. He could find his lock picks in a minute.

 

****

 

Something shook him awake. A figure stood over him, blocking the pale rosy light that crept in through the window. Garrett rubbed the grit out of his eyes and blinked away the fuzzy images. Nurse Aubermill smiled brightly at him as she set something down on the chair beside the bed. Two tin mugs sat on a silver tray. Two?

“Come on, up with you. You’ll only spill it over yourself if you drink it lying down.” She tugged the blanket out of his hands and pushed it down toward the foot of the bed. “Do you need help?”

Garrett shook his head and winced as the stabbing in his temples spiked with the movement. Rolling onto his side he worked an elbow under himself and pushed upright. Dizziness swept over him immediately his head left the pillow. Hands caught him as he toppled forward.

“You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

He didn’t want to cling to her as she helped him sit up. Even just the thought of needing help rankled. He couldn’t afford to rely on anyone; being vulnerable was _dangerous_. But even as every instinct itched to push her away, he found his fingers latching into the folds of her sleeves, grasping for something—anything—solid to cling to as the room tilted sideways. He berated himself for being weak, but he still couldn’t force his grip to loosen.

Nurse Aubermill steadied him as he dragged himself higher up the bed. He grabbed for the bedframe, curling himself around one of the extra pillows. Once he was settled she passed him a mug and took the other for herself as she sat on the edge of the bed. His gaze flicked up to meet hers but couldn’t hold it. Garrett dropped his head and glared suspiciously at his mug to avoid the expectant look on her face. Cradling it between his palms he squinted at the contents.

“It’s water. Only water, no salt.”

It seemed innocent enough. It held no salty whiff, nor any bitter hints of poppy.

“Once you’re feeling better, I think you should start joining in a little more with the others.” She tapped her own mug thoughtfully with a fingernail before taking a sip. “We’ve given you a couple of weeks to find your feet, but I’m not so sure keeping to yourself so much will help in the long run.”

Garrett swirled the water in his mug, avoiding the intent gaze that saw too much. It was bad enough he had to spend all day every day in the dining hall surrounded by patients. His room was no less a cage than anywhere else in Moira, but it was the only refuge he had. He might be trapped, but at least locked in his room he could be alone. From the patients, at least. He had no protection against nurses or attendants invading whenever they felt like it.

“I’m not suggesting you have to be the life of the party,” she clinked her mug against his before drinking herself, “but there are a few things we could have you doing.”

The water was lukewarm and flat and the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted. One cautious sip led to another, and another. Thirst roared into life and before he realised it he was gulping it down as fast as he could. His lungs started to burn but he didn’t, couldn’t, stop for long enough to care.

Something tugged the mug down. He yanked it back but couldn’t break the solid grip.

“Calm down, I’m not taking it away from you. You’ll choke trying to inhale it like that. Sip it slowly.”

Garrett snatched at the mug and spluttered as water splashed in his face. He tried to slow down, he really did, but the desperate thirst crowded out every conscious thought. In seconds it was gone, as much spilling over himself and drenching the pillow as made it inside of him.

Dropping his empty mug his gaze flicked to Nurse Aubermill, and the second mug she held. Water. He lunged for it, the iron bedframe creaking at the sudden jerk. She slipped down from the edge of the bed and held it up out of his reach. _Outstretched hands closed on empty air. Blue light boiled and writhed and fell away._

She sighed and shook her head at him. “Not yet. You need to wait a while before I can let you have any more.”

Garrett glared at her, his fingers clutching white-knuckled at the bedframe to stop himself falling as vertigo rushed through him. She couldn’t take it away now, not when he … he needed—

“If we’re going to do this without salt then you need to take it slow, or you’re going to make yourself ill.” Nurse Aubermill deftly sidestepped his clumsy grab. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes with more. Try to get some rest.”

Garrett couldn’t tear his eyes away as she took the water away with her. As soon as the key scraped in the lock he snatched up the mug he’d dropped. Still empty. Not even a dribble left in the bottom. Heat surged in his chest, stole his breath and spilled over. He hurled the mug at the door and took fleeting satisfaction at the loud thud and the dent left behind.

The pillow was damp and cool. He pressed his forehead into the wet patch and screwed his eyes shut against the throbbing in his temples. Fifteen minutes. Assuming he could trust her. What if she’d lied? What if she forgot to come back? Did she even plan on coming back?

Garrett curled his fingers into the pillow as he breathed out slowly and deliberately. Panicking wasn’t going to do him any good. He couldn’t afford to become this dependent on anyone. But finding water for himself was out of the question. He’d already proven he couldn’t sit up on his own. Just a few paces away, the door may as well be the far side of Cinderfall for all he could reach it. Even if he somehow made it across the room, until he found—or fashioned—lock picks he was going nowhere.

Douglas had given him water. Where was Douglas? Garrett dug his knuckles into his eyes, struggling to think past the fog. She’d … she’d sent Douglas away. To rest. Did that mean Douglas would come back once he’d slept? He couldn’t remember how long it had been. Long enough. Long enough that two pitchers full of saltwater puddled on the floor under his bed. No, three. There’d been three. Maybe? He shouldn’t have thrown them away. Briefly he considered somehow getting at the puddle, and shuddered with revulsion. If they caught him even thinking something so degrading it’d give Doctor Stedmann all the evidence she needed to brand him a madman.

_ One step at a time. _

She already had.

 

****

 

Garrett stared at the door but it still wouldn't open. She’d taken the water away. She’d promised him fifteen minutes, and part of him even wanted to trust her. But each successive heartbeat lingered and hung in the air, falling like rain that drained through his fingers and slipped away.

The cold bedframe against his cheek startled him. He hadn't noticed his head dropping but raising it again felt far too difficult. What would be the point? The air around him felt paper thin and he watched, listless, as the wall opposite his bed slowly rippled. Maybe Erin wasn’t so far away after all.

The door handle turned but he couldn’t summon the energy to look up. Instead he closed his eyes and just listened as footsteps crossed the room toward him. He knew the tread and it wasn’t her. He should have known she’d forget him. If she’d ever intended to come back at all.

“Good morning, Thirty-one.”

Of course it was.

“Are you awake?” Cool fingers brushed over his forehead. “I’ve brought water for you. If you talk to me then I can let you have some.”

Water? A spark of interest kindled. It was a trap. It had to be. Everything here was a trap. He didn’t care. She could trap him all she liked if it meant she’d give him water. Nothing responded at first, but he kept trying until his eyes opened.

Doctor Stedmann smiled at him. “You’ve had a rough few days. How are you feeling?”

Throat dry and dusty, it took several attempts before he could force words. “I’m fine.”

She laughed. “You could at least attempt to sound convincing. You want to try that again? How are you feeling?”

His gaze fell on the mug in her hand. He wanted to make a grab for it, but didn’t dare move. She’d take the water away again if she thought he wasn’t cooperating.

“Like shit.”

“That might be the first honest thing you’ve said to me since you got here.” Doctor Stedmann held the mug out for him. “Don’t try to hold it. The way you’re shaking you’ll only drop it, and Nurse Aubermill tells me that you’ve already spilled more than enough for one day.”

Swallowing the water washed away some of the muffling fog. He couldn't hold back the soft whine of protest as she pulled it away, far too soon. The bedframe creaked as he gripped it harder, trying to stop himself from snatching at the mug.

“I thought this would be a good opportunity for us to talk. What do you think?” She pulled the chair over toward the bed and took a seat, the mug balanced almost casually in her lap. Still almost half full.

Garrett forced himself to look away from the water. He couldn't risk her knowing how badly he needed it. She'd only use it against him. A faint sparkle at the side of her head caught his attention. He rubbed at his eyes to clear the worst of the stickiness gumming them shut. Stray light from the window glinted off the silver comb pinning tight black curls away from her face. Careful to avoid moving too quickly and risk making the dizziness worse, he tried to pull himself higher. Something so pretty seemed out of place here.

“First of all, I need you to understand that what happened was not a punishment. You are not in trouble for anything. Can you understand that?

He nodded, keeping one hand pressed to his temple in a futile attempt to hold back the headache blurring his vision. He'd say anything she wanted to hear if only she'd give him water for it.

“I don't want you to be scared by what happened. The sensory deprivation therapy should have ended the moment you started getting into distress, and I promise you they will take better care in future.”

Garrett narrowed his eyes. She was talking as if she intended to repeat this _therapy_. As if there were anything therapeutic about being tied up in the dark. Letting his breath out in a soft huff he nodded again. Compared to some of the darker rumours he’d heard of the tortures buried behind Moira's walls, sensory deprivation seemed surprisingly benign. The thought of letting them restrain him again so … so closely sent a shudder through him, but at least they hadn't injured him any worse. _They nearly killed you._ It wasn't as if he had any control over what she chose to do to him.

Maybe he'd even see Erin again. And any hints of where they had her imprisoned would help him rescue her once he could walk on his own. Lock picks. He couldn't free Erin without picks.

“Most people who go through sensory deprivation see or hear things whilst they're under. Usually things or people important to them. It's a bit like dreaming while you're still awake. I'd like to talk about what you saw, while it's still fresh in your mind.” She leaned forward with an expectant look on her face. “Did you see Baron Northcrest?”

The Baron? Why would she think … Garrett shook his head as he answered his own question. She still thought him some kind of failed assassin. He almost wanted to laugh. If he had wanted to kill the Baron, there were half a dozen better ways to go about it then lurking on the rooftop with bow and arrow. Erin could doubtless think of even more. That was her speciality, after all.

“Something else then? Can you tell me about it?”

Garrett caught the faint slosh of water as she gently shook the mug. The gesture seemed almost casual, but he doubted there was anything less than deliberate about it. Forcing himself to look away he stared at the window instead. He'd been somewhere, he knew that much. Erin, he remembered clearly, but the rest was already fading. What could he tell her? Would he regret telling her?

“Stars … and shapes. Random shapes.” That much seemed safe to tell her. Hopefully she'd be satisfied with that much.

“Did you recognise any of them?”

He shook his head. It seemed safer not to remember.

“Interesting.” Doctor Stedmann leaned toward him, her amber gaze sharp and all too perceptive. “And Erin? You spoke to Erin, didn't you?"

Garrett jerked forward, catching himself at the last moment against the bedframe as vertigo swept over him. She knew? She already knew! Had Erin said something? Eventually it dawned on him that he was staring open-mouthed. Heat spiked behind his right eye and he dropped his gaze to his hands.

“Is she here? Is—is she alright?”

When no answer immediately came he risked a glance upward to find Doctor Stedmann watching him with a thoughtful expression.

“The accident … Erin fell. She was hurt. Is she alright?”

“How long has Erin been with you?”

Dimly he registered the strangeness of the question, but brushed it aside. If he failed to answer she'd take the water away again. She still didn't know who he was. What harm could it do?

“Four years.” That was right, wasn't it? More or less.

Doctor Stedmann held the mug out and he drank greedily, digging his fingers into the pillow to stop himself from grabbing at it. All too quickly it was gone. He rested his head against the bedframe and let his eyes fall closed.

“You were admitted by the state. We haven't been able to contact your family to tell them you're here with us. Do you have any family? Someone who takes care of you? They must be worried sick.”

Basso. By now Basso would know he'd failed the job. Basso would have long since sent another thief to steal the Primal Stone and earn his commission. Sending a message wouldn't accomplish anything other than to put Basso in danger. The Thief-Taker would have little trouble finding and arresting Basso, given a lead like that. Garrett shook his head. Better he vanish without trace if it kept Basso from getting hurt. “No-one.”

“Alright.” She patted the back of his hand. “In some ways that will make it easier for you to recover. Whatever your insanity made you do in the past, I need you to understand that those were the actions of a sick man. One who no longer exists. You need to make a clean break from your former life.”

Garrett pressed the heel of his hand to his head as the throbbing settled behind his right eye. The way it was stinging he'd swear there was something caught in it. He blinked rapidly several times to clear it, but it didn't help.

“Is there something wrong with your eye?” She frowned. “Hold still and let me take a look.”

He shrank away but she caught his head and pulled him forward into the light from the window. Pressing fingertips above and below she forced his eye wide and loomed over him. The silver comb eased gently from her hair to nestle in his palm. Dark curls relaxed into a soft puffy cloud about her head.

“It looks like you're developing some form of cataract. Most likely from the head trauma when you fell.” She released his head and stepped back. “It’s not uncommon after injuries like you’ve suffered. Can you still see clearly?”

Garrett nodded. It was most likely just a piece of grit. She had to be overreacting.

“It doesn't look like anything to worry about right now, but I need you to tell one of the nurses if you notice any visual disturbances. Strange colours, blurriness, or halos. Things like that. Can you do that?”

When he didn't respond she collected up the empty mug and turned away. “Nurse Aubermill will bring you more water in a few minutes. Get some sleep.”

As soon as the door closed Garrett's fingers uncurled to reveal his new treasure. Silver filigree flowers glittered as he held the comb up to the light. It was a shame to have to break something so beautiful. He caressed one finger along the spine of the comb before pressing as hard as he could. One of the teeth bent sideways and he worked it back and forth until the tooth snapped at the base. Biting at the unbroken end, he bent it into the shape he needed before repeating the process a second time.

Garrett smiled as he held his new silver lock picks. They'd be too soft to last long, but they might get him far enough to locate more suitable tools. As soon as he could walk.

Gingerly he tugged the edge of the sheet back from the corner of the mattress nearest the wall. Silver lock picks and broken comb slid carefully into place beside Nurse Aubermill's pen and the small collection of teaspoons he'd filched from the dining hall. The gentle gleam of polished metal settled something in his stomach, the weight of possessions not his own somehow grounding him.

At a scuffle near the ceiling he looked up. A sleek black rat perched on the high ledge above the door. Something about the tilt of its head seemed unnatural. Too deliberate. It chittered as it caught him watching, then vanished out through the bars and was gone.

 

****

 

_ 7 11 NRy841: Exhaustion and severe dehydration: Left unattended, Patient #31 was discovered to have deliberately spilled water given instead of drinking it, resulting in three hours’ delay in treatment. Prompting revealed he is rejecting the added salt. Provisional: to treat orally under supervision, excluding salt. Fifteen minute observations. ~ Nurse Aubermill _

_ 7 11 NRy841: Approved. ~ Doctor Stedmann _

_ 7 11 NRy841: #31 is now cooperating with treatment. ~ Nurse Aubermill _

_ 7 11 NRy841: Following sensory deprivation therapy Patient #31 has become more tractable and was able to engage in conversation to a limited extent. He will not speak or volunteer information without prompting, but will respond to direct questions given sufficient motivation. He uses nonverbal gestures in preference to speech. When asked about hallucinations experienced during sensory deprivation he attempted to lie and claimed he saw nothing relevant. He denied seeing Baron Northcrest but reacted strongly to mention of “Erin”. He mentioned Erin being injured in an accident and asked whether she is “here” and “alright”. He was unable to identify family or caregivers, but confirmed he began experiencing delusions involving Erin four years ago. As previously suspected, his current illness is a worsening of longstanding chronic insanity, and it is likely that Erin features strongly in his delusions. _

_ “Erin” may possibly refer to Patient #18, who was admitted following the same incident as led to #31’s admission. However, her presence in #31’s hallucinations suggests a stronger influence than mere acquaintance. It is possible that the attempt on Baron Northcrest’s life originated with Patient #18, whose presentation is both paranoid and highly violent, and more plausibly lends itself to murderous intent than #31, who has shown no violent tendencies since first regaining consciousness. This suggests folie à deux may be responsible, with #31 in the associate role. Patient #31’s delusional fixation on Patient #18 would have led him to follow her example without question, overriding any moral objections he might otherwise have raised. Patient #18 has not as yet been sufficiently lucid to conduct a conversation, and it is not possible to corroborate this theory. Further observation of both may shed additional light. Tentative diagnosis: monomania incorporating folie à deux shared with Patient #18. _

_ Treatment for Patient #31 must include strict separation from #18 to lessen her influence on him. Attendants are to be reminded that discussing one patient in the hearing of another is strictly forbidden, and should be made aware that any attempts made by #31 to discuss or contact Erin must be diverted or discouraged to the greatest extent possible. ~ Doctor Stedmann _

_ 7 11 NRy841: Complete heterochromia and a cloudy mass within the right eye suggest the development of a trauma-induced cataract. Treatment is not yet warranted as his vision is currently unaffected. Keep under observation. ~ Doctor Stedmann _

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to [Brohne](http://archiveofourown.org/users/brohne/pseuds/brohne) and [ TimeSquid](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TimeSquid/pseuds/TimeSquid) for betareading and encouragement
> 
> On temporary hiatus while I finish my dissertation. Normal service will be resumed shortly.


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